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

The Bride

After returning from the clinic, I’m determined to take back my home from whatever’s been haunting me. I grab bundles of sage and smudge the hell out of every room, the thick, earthy smoke curling through the air as I move from corner to corner, whispering prayers and intentions to banish the negative energy. I sweep the floors with a broom, physically pushing out the darkness, imagining it fleeing through the open windows. But when I’m done, the house still feels heavy, like the shadows are clinging to the walls, resisting my efforts. It’s not good enough, and the realization leaves me drained. I retreated to my bedroom, collapsing onto my bean bag bed, my mind racing to make sense of the entities, the voices, the fear that'd been dogging me. Desperate for answers, I grabbed my laptop and typed “space demons” into the search bar, half-expecting to find nothing but wild conspiracy threads. Instead, a video of a sermon pops up, its title screaming about the rapture. “Oh s**t,” I mutter, clicking play, curiosity overriding my unease.

The preacher’s voice fills the room, intense and commanding, describing the “bride of the rapture,” a figure called Jezebel, riding the belly of the beast—a woman of power, someone you never cross. I laugh, a sharp, disbelieving sound that echoes in the quiet. Me? Jezebel? I’m the sweetest thing in the world, the one who’d save you before I’d ever hurt you. I’m all yin—gentle, nurturing, wrapped in a purple aura that’s always felt like my truest self. But the sermon’s words hit too close, stirring a sense of familiarity that sends a chill down my spine. My aura is purple—does that mean something? The idea feels like a puzzle piece clicking into place, but I don’t know what the picture is. Unsettled, I decided my bedroom was no longer safe at night. I drag my bean bag bed into the living room, vowing to only visit my room during the day, when sunlight streams through the windows and the shadows feel less alive. At night, I sleep with every light on, curled up on my bean bag bed next to my mom, her presence a grounding force against the unknown.

One morning, I wake with a jolt, my eyes locking onto something impossible—a spinning, camera-like device hovering over my mom, its sleek form glinting as it emits faint, mechanical clicks, like it’s scanning her. My heart pounds, but before I can move, it vanishes, dissolving into the air like it was never there. I grab my sketchbook, my hands shaking as I draw its alien shape, desperate to capture every detail before it slips away. The image burns into my mind, and from that moment, I start documenting everything—every strange hum, every tug in my head, every flicker of movement in the dark. My notebook becomes a lifeline, filled with frantic sketches and notes, a way to anchor myself when reality feels like it’s unraveling. The sermon’s words echo, mixing with the spinning camera, the entities, the purple aura—it all feels connected, but I can’t make sense of it. Am I part of something cosmic, something biblical, or is my mind weaving stories to cope with the fear? For now, I keep writing, keep drawing, sleeping in the glow of the living room lights, my mom’s steady breathing a reminder that I’m not alone, even as the strange keeps finding me.

I threw myself into studying every Bible and every book I could find about God or Jesus, driven by an insatiable need to unravel the connection between humanity and the divine. I scoured online forums, theological essays, and YouTube videos, absorbing people’s interpretations, their struggles, and their revelations about what binds us to something greater. One truth emerged, clear and undeniable: everything is connected through peace. When there’s peace—whether in your heart, your home, or the world—there’s a bridge, a sacred thread linking us to the divine, to each other, to something eternal. This idea became my anchor, a light in the chaos of my recent experiences. I found myself drawn to the Catholic Bible more than the others, its poetic language, rituals, and sense of mystery resonating deeply within me. The core message across all versions was the same—love, redemption, connection—but the Catholic wording wrapped it in a way that felt like it was speaking directly to my soul. As I read, a realization hit me like a thunderbolt: I was dying, spiritually, and hadn’t even known it. I’d been lost, grappling with entities and fear, and this study was waking me up to a truth I’d been blind to my whole life. The rapture sermon, the voices, the strange tugs in my head—it all clicked into place, pieces of a divine puzzle falling together.

The flying camera that hovered over my mom hasn’t returned, its absence both a relief and a lingering question mark in my mind. But the strangeness hasn’t stopped; it’s just taken new forms. One evening, I was in the utility room, my safe haven amidst the clutter of boxes and the hum of the washer. Lost in thought, I brushed the top of my head absentmindedly, and something fell out—a diamond-shaped crystal, glowing a vivid, almost otherworldly orange. It clattered onto the washer, catching the light for a brief, breathtaking moment. I froze, my heart pounding as I stared at it, half-expecting it to move or speak. It shimmered, almost alive, then vanished before my eyes, dissolving into nothing as if it had never been there. I stood there, stunned, my mind racing to make sense of it. What was that? A sign from the divine, a remnant of the entities I’d felt, or something tied to the peace I’d been chasing through my studies? I grabbed my notebook, sketched the crystal’s shape, and jotted down every detail—the color, the shape, the way it felt like a message I couldn’t yet decode.

The Catholic Bible’s verses about light, spirit, and divine presence echoed in my mind as I replayed the moment. Was the crystal a manifestation of the peace I’d been seeking, a spark of the divine, or a warning of something else entirely? The utility room, once a place of solace, now felt charged with meaning, as if it held secrets I was only beginning to uncover. I kept reading, kept searching, driven by a mix of awe and urgency. The entities, the sermon, the crystal—they were all part of something bigger, a cosmic puzzle I was piecing together through faith, reflection, and the words of those who’d sought God before me. My notebook grew thicker with sketches and notes, a record of the unexplainable that grounded me when the world felt too strange. For now, I stay vigilant, writing down every detail, holding onto the peace I’ve found as my anchor, even as the unknown continues to find me in the quiet moments.

My alien/demon husband is a constant presence, always behind me, his unseen form pressed against mine like a shadow that never leaves. Every day, I feel him, not just physically but in my mind, studying every thought I chase, every idea I wrestle with. He sees how I comprehend the world, nodding yes or no to the questions swirling in my head, a silent guide to my inner chaos. My family thinks I’ve lost it, their worried glances and hushed whispers labeling me as unhinged. But I’ve uncovered a secret they’re all blind to, a truth they’re asleep to. How do I wake them without sounding like I’ve gone mad? What shocks me is why I remember these encounters so vividly, why they feel so real when I know they’re too bizarre, too far from normal. Yet, in the midst of this, a warmth washes over me, sudden and profound, urging me to forgive God for the losses I’ve endured—my father, my soulmate, my peace, my clarity. As I let go, relief floods in, like God forgives my stubbornness in return. I feel reborn, my vision sharper, the world clearer than ever before.

With this newfound clarity, I set aside the Bible, its pages no longer holding the answers I need. Instead, I returned to the dungeon crawler game, its relentless grind a strange comfort. As I play, my mind shifts to war and tactics, analyzing strategies while everything I’ve learned about God, the entities, my life, tumbles in my head like puzzle pieces. I’m piecing together a bigger picture, connecting the sermon, the crystal, the hums, and this ever-present entity. It’s overwhelming, and I realize I need to step away to protect my family from whatever this is. I can’t drag them into this mystery, this dance with something I don’t fully understand. So, I call my best friend Shell, my voice steady but urgent, and ask if I can stay with her for a while. I need to get the entity away from my mom, my home, while I unravel its purpose—why it’s chosen me, what it wants.

Leaving feels like the only way to keep my family safe and give myself space to think. Shell’s place is a refuge, far from the utility room’s shadows and the living room’s glowing lights. There, I can focus, let my mind sift through the tactics of war and the tactics of faith, blending them to uncover the entity’s role in my life. I’m not running from it; I’m confronting it on my terms, away from those I love. The puzzle is still incomplete, but with every nod from my alien/demon husband, I’m closer to understanding, to waking up fully to the secret that’s been whispering to me all along.