The time I lost my mind (first of many creepy stories)

As a child, I caught glimpses of worlds beyond our own, shadows of other realities flickering at the edges of my vision. Sometimes, it was a fleeting movement in the corner of my eye, a figure darting out of sight before I could focus. Other times, vivid dreams or encounters with entities no one else could see left me both awestruck and unsettled.

 These moments were strange, unexplainable, and I tucked them away as quirks of an overactive imagination.

At 18, my world shattered when a close friend took his own life. In the wake of that loss, vivid dreams brought him back to me, whispering messages from loved ones who had passed. I dismissed these experiences as grief-fueled illusions, blaming my mental health and trying to ignore the whispers from beyond.

By 25, I noticed a deeper rift within me, a split in my very soul. Under stress, it felt like two versions of myself were at war, their voices clashing in my mind. The internal conflict grew so intense that I left my job and retreated into isolation, desperate for relief. Doctor’s visits offered no answers, so I sought my own remedy: ketamine.

I first tried it after a chance encounter at a pub. The effect was electric. The warring halves of my soul merged, harmonizing in a way that left me feeling whole for the first time in years. For weeks after a dose, I was vibrant, alive, at peace. It became my secret ritual. I’d buy a bag, put on music, and transform my room into a sanctuary of order, cleaning, organizing, purging anything unnecessary. I called it “finding zen.” 

Each session left my space pristine, my mind clear, and my soul buzzing with energy, as if my room itself were a battery charging with cosmic power.As a bit of a self-proclaimed philosopher, I’d ponder life’s big questions during these rituals: How can I be truly free? How can I make a living and feel at home in my body? The ketamine trips felt guided, as if an unseen entity was answering me, showing me paths to the truths I sought. 

My use became daily, and I convinced myself it was making my life better in every way. I kept it private, believing it harmed no one.

Then came the bad trips. One night, I saw a Facebook post from my aunt, grieving the loss of her grandson. Her pain poured through her words, post after post, raw and relentless. In my altered state, I became obsessed with easing her suffering. During one of my zen rituals, the energy in my room surged to a fever pitch. Suddenly, I received what felt like a “download” from an entity, a prayer to heal her broken heart. I typed it out, sent it to her, and believed I’d mended her soul.

 I was soaring, high on ketamine and conviction.But the moment I hit send, everything shifted. A wave of anxiety crashed over me, urging me to stretch my body like some primal yoga. 

The buzzing energy in my room began to drain, leaving an oppressive emptiness. I fled downstairs, chasing the fading hum of electricity I swore I could hear. By the time I collapsed on my living room floor, I was clinging to the belief that this energy powered the universe itself.Then it vanished entirely.

Terror gripped me. I ran upstairs, fumbling with my phone to reconnect with reality. But as I watched, my battery drained at an impossible speed, the percentage ticking down like a countdown to doom. 

I texted a friend: “Something’s happened, I don’t know what’s going on.”

He replied, “What’s happening?”

I then sent another message: “I don’t know what happened, but I’ve pushed it too far.”

To my horror, his reply echoed my exact wonbrds: “I don’t know what happened, but I’ve pushed it too far.”

I sent more messages, each one bouncing back as if I were texting a mirror. Panic surged. My phone was nearly dead. I plugged it into a wall charger, but the house’s electricity seemed to have failed. I grabbed my fully charged power bank, but the moment I connected it, the charge drained instantly, as if sucked into a void.

Standing at my bedroom door, I froze. My belongings were arranged in a spiral pattern, a ritual I hadn’t consciously created. Dread sank deep into my bones. I was in what I now call the “back rooms” my house, but not my reality. I was trapped in another realm, pushed too far beyond the veil. A terrifying thought seized me: the only way out was to end it all.

 I ran from my room, heart pounding, desperate to escape this liminal space.Then I remembered my roommate. I banged on his door, no answer. I burst in, convinced he wasn’t there, but he was—groggy, confused. “What’s happening?” he asked.“The electricity’s not working!” I stammered. “I’ve been messing with things I shouldn’t have.”He told me to come downstairs and calm down. I insisted the power was out, flipping light switches and trying the TV, which stayed black to my eyes. 

Then he said, “Robbie, the TV’s on.”

I stared, uncomprehending. He flicked a switch, and suddenly the lights blazed, the TV flickered to life, and the familiar buzz returned. 

“It was on the whole time,” he said. Relief flooded me as the dread ebbed away. Reality snapped back into place. But the memory of that night remains vivid, as real as this moment.

 The next day, I called my friend, who confirmed something eerie: every text he sent me had bounced back as his own words, just as I’d experienced. My power bank? Dead, never to work again.

I’m still not sure what happened. Sometimes, I think it’s what happens when you dabble in forces beyond understanding “voodoo,” as I call it. Strangely, my aunt never posted another sad update on Facebook.

I wonder if I shifted realities, aligning with the manifestation I’d intended for her. I was in the back rooms, caught between worlds, while my reality reshaped itself.

I have a fair few of these stories this is just the first.