When a billionaire wants to kill you.....

Demons

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow over the pale walls of the psychiatric clinic. I sat on the edge of the stiff, starched bed, my knees pulled to my chest, my hands clutching my hair as if I could physically hold my thoughts together. The clinic staff had ushered me into this room hours ago, their voices clipped and professional, promising that a doctor would be with me in the morning. They didn’t listen to me—not really. They nodded, scribbled notes, and exchanged glances that screamed skepticism. To them, I was just another patient, another set of symptoms to medicate into submission. They thought pills could fix everything. But how do you medicate something you can’t see, something that claws at your mind and presses against your soul?

I could feel it again—the invisible being. Its presence was undeniable, a weight that settled over me like a suffocating blanket. It was touching my head, its touch both cold and searing, like fingers of ice scratching at the surface of my brain. I winced, curling tighter into myself, as another sensation joined the first—a second entity, heavier, more invasive, as if it were pressing itself against me, violating my space in a way that made my skin crawl. There were two of them now, and I didn’t know how much more I could take. I huddled into a ball, my forehead pressed against my knees, and whispered a prayer for them to leave me alone. But the words felt hollow, empty. God hadn’t listened to me in a long time, and I wasn’t sure He was listening now.

The room was small, clinical, with a single overhead light that I kept on despite the late hour. Darkness was too dangerous; it gave them more power, made their presence feel more real. The light was my only defense, a fragile barrier against the fear that gnawed at my insides. I stared at the bulb, willing it to hold back the shadows, but it flickered slightly, as if mocking my desperation. Then, out of nowhere, I heard it—music. Soft at first, then growing clearer, a delicate strain of classical music, like something from a forgotten era. Violins and cellos wove together in a haunting melody, filling the air with an elegance that felt utterly out of place in this sterile, joyless room.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat. Music wasn’t allowed here. No electronics, no radios, no phones—nothing that could disrupt the rigid control of the clinic’s environment. The staff had been clear about that when they’d confiscated my belongings, leaving me with nothing but a thin gown and a pair of slip-resistant socks. Yet the music was unmistakable, as if it were playing in the next room, just beyond the wall. I strained my ears, trying to pinpoint its source, but it seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. My heart pounded, a frantic rhythm that drowned out the melody for a moment. Was this another trick of my mind? Another symptom to be noted in my chart, another reason for them dismissing me?

Then, as if the music wasn’t enough, something else happened. My gaze drifted to the window across the room, the one that looked out onto the darkened courtyard. The glass shimmered, and suddenly, images flickered across it—cartoons, bright and colorful, playing as if the window were a television screen. A cartoon rabbit hopped across a field, chased by a comically exaggerated hunter with a shotgun. The colors were vivid, the movements fluid, but the scene felt wrong, like a mockery of innocence. My stomach twisted. This wasn’t right. Windows didn’t play cartoons. Clinics didn’t have orchestras hidden in the walls. I was starting to think I was losing my mind, that the line between reality and madness had blurred beyond recognition.

The invisible being—the one scratching at my brain—grazed my head again, its touch sharper this time, like a claw dragging across my scalp. I flinched, my breath hitching, and in a moment of reckless desperation, I spoke to it. “What’s your name?” My voice was barely a whisper, trembling with fear and exhaustion. For a moment, there was nothing but silence, the music fading to a low hum. Then, slowly, it came into view.

It wasn’t fully corporeal, more like a shimmer in the air, a distortion of light that took on a vaguely human shape. Its aura was red, pulsing like a heartbeat, and I could just make out the form of a man—tall, lean, with features that seemed to shift and blur. Its eyes, if it had any, were hidden in the crimson glow. “Sanity,” it said, its voice low and resonant, like the echo of a bell tolling in a distant cathedral. The word hung in the air, heavy with irony. Sanity. Was this thing mocking me? Was it claiming to be the very thing I was losing?

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. Instead, I pulled the thin blanket over my head, curling tighter into myself as if I could make myself small enough to disappear. The cartoons continued to play on the window, their cheerful absurdity a stark contrast to the dread pooling in my chest. But then I noticed something else—movement outside the window, beyond the animated images. A shadow shifted in the bushes, a darker shape against the night. My heart lurched. Someone was out there, watching me. I could feel their gaze, heavy and predatory, cutting through the glass and the cartoons and the false safety of this room.

Panic surged through me, overriding the fear of the entities and the strangeness of the music. I threw off the blanket and bolted from the bed, my bare feet slapping against the cold linoleum floor. The door to my room felt heavier than it should have as I yanked it open and stumbled into the hallway. The nurse’s station was at the end of the corridor, a beacon of light in the dimness. I hurried toward it, my breath ragged, my gown flapping around my knees. The night nurse looked up as I approached, her expression a mix of irritation and pity.

“There’s someone outside my window,” I gasped, gripping the edge of the counter. "In the bushes. Watching me.”

She sighed, her pen pausing over the chart she’d been writing in. “You’re sure?” she asked, her tone flat, like she’d heard this story a hundred times before.

“I saw them,” I insisted, my voice rising. “Please, just check.”

She studied me for a moment, her lips pursed, then nodded to an orderly standing nearby. “Go take a look,” she said, her voice devoid of urgency. The orderly, a burly man with a bored expression, shuffled off toward the courtyard. I stood there, trembling, waiting for him to return with confirmation that I wasn’t crazy, that someone was out there. But when he came back, his face was blank.

“Nothing out there,” he said, shrugging. “Bushes are empty.”

The nurse gave me a look that said everything: You’re hallucinating again. “Let’s get you something to help you sleep,” she said, already reaching for a small paper cup and a bottle of pills. I wanted to argue, to scream that I wasn’t imagining it, that the music and the cartoons and the shadow were real, but the words caught in my throat. What was the point? They didn’t believe me. They never did.

She handed me the cup with a single white pill and a glass of water. “Take this and go back to your room. The doctors will see you in the morning.” Her tone was final, leaving no room for protest. I swallowed the pill, the bitterness lingering on my tongue, and shuffled back to my room, the orderly trailing behind me like a guard escorting a prisoner.

When I stepped inside, the music was gone. The cartoons had vanished from the window, leaving only the dark reflection of the room. The entities were still there, though—I could feel them, lurking in the corners of my perception, waiting for the medication to dull my senses. I climbed back into bed, pulling the blanket up to my chin, and closed my eyes. The pill was already working, dragging me toward sleep, but my mind was still racing. Maybe the nurse was right. Maybe I needed to talk to the doctors tomorrow. Maybe they could help me make sense of this nightmare.

But deep down, I knew the truth. The entities weren’t going away. The music, the cartoons, the shadow in the bushes—they weren’t just in my head. Something was happening to me, something beyond the reach of pills and diagnoses. And as I drifted into a heavy, dreamless sleep, I couldn’t shake the feeling that “Sanity” was still there, watching me, waiting for its moment to strike.

The next morning, the clinic was a blur of routine. Breakfast was a tray of tasteless oatmeal and a cup of lukewarm coffee, served by an orderly who barely made eye contact. I ate in silence, my thoughts sluggish from the medication, my body heavy with exhaustion. The entities were quieter now, their presence muted but not gone, like a storm that had retreated but was still gathering strength on the horizon. I kept my eyes on the table, avoiding the windows, afraid of what I might see.

When the doctor finally came to see me, he was everything I’d expected: middle-aged, balding, with a clipboard and a practiced smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He sat across from me in a small office, flipping through my chart as if it held all the answers to who I was. “So,” he began, his voice calm and measured, “tell me about what happened last night.”

I hesitated, the weight of his skepticism already pressing down on me. How could I explain the entities, the music, the cartoons, the shadow? How could I make him understand that these weren’t just hallucinations, that something was wrong? But I had to try. So I told him everything, my words tumbling out in a rush, my hands twisting in my lap as I described the invisible beings, the red aura, the name “Sanity.” I told him about the music that shouldn’t have been there, the cartoons on the window, the figure in the bushes. I told him how the nurses didn’t believe me, how they’d drugged me to make me quiet.

He listened, nodding occasionally, jotting notes with a pen that scratched loudly against the paper. When I finished, he leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “It sounds like you’re experiencing some vivid hallucinations,” he said finally. “This could be a manifestation of stress, or perhaps a side effect of your current medication. We’ll adjust your dosage and start you on something new to help stabilize your mood.”

I wanted to scream. Of course, he thought it was all in my head. Of course, he thought a pill could fix it. “It’s not just hallucinations,” I said, my voice shaking. “I felt them. I saw them. There was someone outside my window.”

“We sent someone to check, and there was no one there,” he said gently, as if speaking to a child. “Sometimes our minds play tricks on us, especially when we’re under stress. The medication will help.”

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. “And what about the music? The cartoons? How do you explain those?”

He hesitated, just for a moment, before offering another practiced smile. “The mind is a powerful thing. It can create sensations that feel very real. But we’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise.”

I didn’t believe him. He didn’t believe me. And as he wrote out a new prescription and sent me back to my room, I felt the weight of the entities return, their presence stronger now, as if they were feeding off my frustration. The music started again that night, softer this time, but unmistakable. The cartoons flickered on the window, their colors muted but still there. And in the bushes, the shadow moved again, watching, waiting.

I didn’t run to the nurse’s station this time. What was the point? They’d just give me another pill, another dose of oblivion. Instead, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, and whispered to the entity called Sanity. “What do you want from me?”

Its voice came back, low and mocking. “Everything.”

And in that moment, I knew I was on my own. The doctors, the nurses, the pills—they couldn’t help me. Whatever was happening, it was bigger than this clinic, bigger than me. And as the music swelled and the cartoons danced, I realized that the only way out was to face it, to confront the unseen presence that called itself Sanity and demand answers. But for now, I closed my eyes, letting the medication pull me under, and prayed—not to God, but to whatever was left of myself—that I’d find the strength to fight back tomorrow.