During my early years, I was taught that the supernatural world did not exist. My parents constantly reassured me that there were no monsters under my bed and no spirits watching over me. However, as I grew older, my own experiences led me to believe that there is something beyond what we can physically see. Throughout my life, I have felt both guided and protected by an unknown force that still remains a mystery to me. As I sit in my second-story apartment in the peaceful neighborhood of Port Grove in Seattle, I am reminded of a summer day from my childhood. Now, at the age of forty-two, I work a mundane job as a bank clerk.
Yet, during moments of solitude, I often reminisce about the day when it all started. With a sense of closure from my last encounter, I feel compelled to write it all down and remember it, rather than suppressing it. Despite not knowing what the future holds, I am determined to explore this unknown force that has followed me throughout my life. I awoke that day, with the morning rays shining through, casting long shadows in slits across my room. It brought a serenity only morning light can, especially during those formative years, where the only worries were how long we could play outside that day and what Mother had cooked for breakfast.
On weekend mornings, she would let me sleep in, sometimes even until the sun had made its journey halfway across the sky. That morning I had stayed in bed, taking in the gleam of the sun, but noticed the birds and other wildlife were still dead silent. The only interruption was the occasional sound of cars passing by. Looking back, I realized this morning was the last time that I felt innocent. They have followed me to this very day, thirty years later. I had never recounted the story to either of my parents and now I wouldn’t be able to, even if I had the chance.
After that day, my loved ones sensed that something was amiss with me, but they never had a chance to uncover what it was. Over the years, they passed away one by one, starting with my mother and followed shortly after by my father. The morning in question, my father had already left for work - he was always preoccupied with his job, even until the day he passed. I was never particularly close to him. That morning, my mother burst into my room with excitement, announcing that she had made my little sister and me our favorite breakfast - blueberry pancakes, with just the right amount of syrup to avoid sogginess and a generous sprinkle of powdered sugar. She later revealed to me that she learned the recipe from her own mother.
Whenever she spoke of her mother, her tone and mannerisms changed, as if she were anxious. I never quite understood this, having only met my grandmother once before she passed away. All I knew was that we lived in her house, which she had left to her mother. I jumped out of bed that morning, still in my blue and black plaid pajamas, ready to eat breakfast with my family. “Come down for breakfast, Cecile,” my mother called out. Running ahead of her, in childish ambition to reach the kitchen first, I nearly tumbled down the stairs, only catching my balance on the polished oak of the staircase handrail. The kitchen was full of the same warm morning sunlight and smelled of freshly brewed coffee.
A steaming cup was set out on the table. The intoxicating smell made me wonder what it tasted like, but the momentary thought was quickly overruled by the sight of the stack of blueberry pancakes on a silver serving platter. They had the perfect amount of syrup and a heaping pile of powdered sugar accented on top that I loved. I enthusiastically pulled out a chair, and with bright eyes pulled a fork and knife towards me. “Wait for your sister, Jas.” The stern but gentle voice of my mother sounded as she entered the kitchen. She used to call me Jas, which never bothered me until my teenage years. I was always distant with her, then barely spoke to her until close to her passing. I wish I had treated her better. Borrowing from one of my father’s old catchphrases, It was too late for the shoulda, coulda, woulda’s now.
I impatiently sat, staring longingly at the pancakes stacked in front of me. I remember the anticipation clearly. My hands tightly gripped the knife in one hand and the fork in the other, tapping my foot. Finally, I heard the excited thumping of my sister’s footsteps as she ran down the upstairs hallway, footsteps thumping, and then descending the stairs and around the bend to the kitchen. Her bright blue eyes sparkled from enthusiasm, aided in their brilliance by the summer sun gleaming through the kitchen windows. “Thank you, Mommy!” She trilled while pulling out the chair next to me and sitting down. “Finally,” I said bitterly. Another small moment that I now regret. After our parents died, what they left was left to both of us. Arguments over their estate broke out, and in turn, our relationship broke down. Since then we haven’t spoken a word to each other.
She still is the only close family I have left, and I miss her more than anything. After our mother sat down with us, we eagerly pulled the pancakes onto our plates and began to dig in ravenously. I vividly remember the taste of my favorite childhood breakfast. The tart taste of the blueberries, the fluffy texture of the cakes, and the heavy maple taste of the syrup. Another distant memory, but still a clear one. Our mother, sipping on her now half-cooled coffee and proudly looking over the product of her culinary skills, watched as we devoured our way through the whole stack of pancakes she had made. “Wipe your mouths, you heathens,” she said as we finished the stack. “We will, Mamma.” We both wiped our mouths and then stood up, leaving our plates stained with smears of syrup and clumps of soggy powdered sugar. “Can I go play outside?” I piped up, making sure to wipe my mouth before speaking.
“Sure, Jas. Do you want to go outside too, Cecile?” She had begun to walk across the hallway and turned to face us again. “No, Momma. I want to play with my toys in the living room.” I was fine with going outside alone and told my mother so. Our backyard was isolated, jutting very closely up on some thick woods. It was fenced in, even if only by a five-foot-tall chain link fence. There was no gate. I think it made my mother happier to know the backdoor of the house was the only way in and out of the backyard.
I ran to my room, changed into more comfortable outdoor clothes, then ran into the living room, gathering my favorite baseball bat and ball on the way, and headed out of the back sliding glass door. Soft afternoon light shone, casting shadows on the large trees. It was a beautiful afternoon, with just the right amount of sun, contrasted by thick, fluffy clouds meandering their way across the stark blue sky. A perfect breeze was blowing, with just the right lazy speed and warm hint.
All was set for a perfect and lazy Saturday afternoon. Our swingset that sat in the corner of the yard, right against the woods, was swaying slightly, letting out a quiet and dull creak. The tops of the trees swayed in a gentle rhythm as if they were breathing. I surveyed the yard, not noticing a thing out of place. My parents had a picnic table sitting near the back door, and I sat my bat and ball down on it for the time being. I ran over to the swing set that sat facing the woods. I loved to swing while watching the small birds and wildlife scurrying around. I swung with the breeze, the creaking sound growing louder as I swung faster. I began to watch in anticipation, waiting to see a chipmunk or finch come across my field of vision.
But there was none. I waited for several more minutes, but still, there was nothing. Perhaps what I remember the most clearly was the deep sense of unease that came when I realized that the whole day I hadn’t heard any of the normal birdsong or animal noises. At the time I didn’t know why, but even then it struck a deep and primal sense of danger inside me. I suddenly felt like I was being watched. I turned, scanning all the windows of my house and the sides of the yard. No one was looking at me. The panic started to set in, I could feel it in my stomach.
Like molten metal, spreading from my stomach and up my throat. I should have turned and run as fast as I could back into the house, back into the safety, or at least the illusion of safety. But I sat there, on my swing, waiting for the panic to die down. And it did, the feeling lessened but it never went away. It was like an itch that was just out of reach.
After the panic faded, I went back to swinging but eventually stood up and retrieved my baseball bat and ball to attempt to distract myself from my unease. I began to throw the ball into the air, trying to hit it, and failing multiple times before finally swinging a solid hit. Crack. It rang out, and the ball soared through the air. My proud demeanor quickly faded when the ball soared over the fence and directly into the woods. I inwardly groaned, knowing it was my only ball. What would I tell my parents? I thought they would be furious at me. In reality, they wouldn’t have, but blocked by my young mind’s reasoning, I couldn’t think clearly. Searching for a way to retrieve it, I remembered that there was no gate on our backyard fence. I hesitantly approached where the ball had gone and peered over. The ball was laying on a patch of moss, having gone fairly deep beyond the wood line.
I acted without thinking, propping myself up on the fence, then haphazardly throwing myself over, ending up half on my side and half flat on my back, the top of the fence having grazed my skin. Not enough to draw blood, but still enough to make me wince. After checking my small abrasion, I stood up and scanned the woods around me. The shade was deep in this part of the trees, and the canopy was thick. Moss and mold were growing in thick patches of carpet, and with every breath I took, their deep earthy smell filled me.
I made a beeline for the ball, feeling the uncomfortable sense growing in my stomach again. I get beads of sweat on my brow as I see closer to the ball. I sped up to a brisk walk, then into a jog that turned into a run. I reached for the ball, grabbing it. I turned to run back to the house. Then the sense suddenly peaked, and I felt myself freezing up. A cold chill, like a frigid wind, flowed through me and down my spine.
A soft thumping began from deeper in the woods. Footsteps. Muffled by the layers of moss. It couldn’t be. We had no neighbors. My family was inside. An animal? No. It couldn’t have been. They were clear, but inhumanly soft bipedal footfalls. My breathing became rough and coarse. I couldn’t move. I wanted to run. I needed to run. But I couldn’t, but my body wouldn’t let me, I felt trapped. They were right behind me. Then, as abruptly as they had started, the footfalls stopped. It felt like someone had pressed a hot iron to the back of my head. Its eyes were boring into the back of my skull. For the first time in my young life, I felt as if I was at death’s door.
Dread washed over me, and my breathing became manual. I felt sweat in my hair, starting to make its way down my forehead and onto my cheeks. Then I made the most crucial mistake. I mustered all of my strength and turned. Standing behind a tree, barely seven feet away, was a man. At least what I thought was a man. He was extraordinarily tall and lanky. My eyes scanned upwards, noticing its jet-black shoes, its jeans, and its green-colored long-sleeve shirt. Then, my eyes reached its face. My face contorted, and I began to take steps backward, fumbling over myself.
The eyes had no pupils, no whites. All they were was a deep shade of indigo. Indigo voids, staring into me. I felt like I was falling. Darkness overtook my vision. I fell backward, thumping my head hard against the ground. Through my blurred vision, I saw it step out in front of me. My mouth began to move, but no words formed. It was the predator, and I felt like it was prey. Like a hawk closing in on its kill. I felt this hunger. I was going to die. It was going to kill me.
I didn’t, and after I learned what I know now, I knew wasn’t in mortal danger. It took two steps toward me. Now it was nearly standing over me. Then it looked down. That was the last time I was conscious in those woods. My vision faded as its voids bore into me. Directly into my eyes. Color overtook my vision, but not black. It was all indigo.
It’s still there. The first thought that was in my mind when I awoke. Oh God, it’s still there. I feel it. When I awoke I was still laying on the moss bed. I shot to my feet, causing my head to swim, but at that moment I didn’t care. I still saw indigo in the corners of my eyes, flashing in and out of my vision. I feverishly looked around. No man with indigo eyes. I felt it, but It wasn’t there. I knew it was there. I had forgotten completely about baseball.
As soon as I felt able, I ran. Down the path, out of the deep woods. The rays of the sun gave me a rush of adrenaline. I couldn’t have been out for long, as the sun hadn’t moved much since I had gone into those deep woods. I sped up and scaled the fence in a single vault. I hit the ground and stayed there. I still felt its presence. I sat for a long while, trying to make sense of what had happened. It was all so quick. But I knew, even then it wasn’t over.
They have appeared to me in groups, as women, and even in the reflections of mirrors. On that day, I sat up and walked into the house like any other time. I feigned that everything was alright. My mom greeted me, not noticing a thing. She had a habit of ignoring things that she didn’t want to accept. A part of me still thinks she knew I changed from that day onward, but she never vocalized or even indicated her concerns to me.
I was with her on her deathbed, and even then she never said anything. She had not gone out on her terms. A cancer diagnosis had caught us off guard, and it quickly ravaged her entire body until she was a shell of who she once was. On a warm June evening in 2015, I visited the hospital. When I entered her room, I saw the state she was in. She was lightly sleeping when I entered, but when she heard me her eyes fluttered open.
Her eyes were sunken in, and her yellowing skin cling to her skull like strips of ripped paper. She greeted me with a voice so raspy it sounded like the dry scratching of sandpaper. “Jas, I’m glad you could come. Where is Cecile?” I frowned. “She couldn’t make it, Mom.” Sadness briefly passed over her face but didn’t stay very long. “I know I don’t have much time, Jas. I have made most of my peace, but there’s one last thing I would like to tell you. Your grandmother, my mother, Agnes, had many secrets she tried her best to keep covered.
She did for her entire life. But after her death, when we moved into the house, during my cleaning, I found her old boxes buried deep within the back of the attic. There were notebooks filled with processes and writings of her visions.” She let out a raspy cough, her voice fading further into raspiness. “She always claimed that she could see things that others couldn’t. I had always known she kept secrets, but some of the things in those notebooks were very surprising. Most were detailed processes with words and phrases I didn’t understand.
The one page I could even remotely understand was a description of how she could see dark men and women, and sometimes even talked to them. She didn’t go into detail about it, and I don’t know if she was losing her mind near the end or if she was truly special. I thought you should know, for I can at least share some of my mother’s secrets with you before I die. I have long since lost these notebooks, but it feels good to get another thing off of my chest. I still wish we could have spent more time with her. Thank you for stopping to see me. I love you, Jason.” “I love you too, Mom. Thank you for everything.”
She smiled at me and faded back into resting. I checked her breathing, then went to the bathroom and joined her room to gather myself. I stared at myself in the mirror, thinking about how quickly she has ravaged me with the disease and the new information she had told me about my grandmother. The descriptions of dark men and women reminded me of what I was experiencing now. I remember thinking that I and my grandmother could have been dealing with the same entities.
Suddenly, in reflection, I saw that man. Its eyes showed indigo, reflecting in the sterile hospital light. I whipped my head around, but it wasn’t physically there. It was merely a reflection. My mother’s heart monitor steadily beeped in the background as a sudden thought occurred to me as if a wire had finally connected in my brain. Part of this entity’s purpose could be to be a harbinger of misfortune. I knew seeing it signaled that my mother did not have long left. I was right in my assumption. My mother passed away later that night. Cecile wasn’t there, she was busy with her own growing family across the country in Boston. She had moved the spring before, and I knew my mother resented her, even though she had never said it. My father was at his house.
He wasn’t able to stand to see his wife of so many years in this state. He passed quietly in his sleep a month later. I never got to say my final goodbye to him. The rest of that childhood day I had sat alone in my room, listening to the sounds of my family buzzing around their business while cars passed by on the road outside.
There were still no sounds of wildlife outside. Another sign that the entity was still silently stalking me. After both my parent’s death, the appearances became much more frequent, and they began to speak and interact with me.
One early autumn day in 2016, I was alone in a park, thinking silently to myself. It was crisp, with fall just starting to sink its icy claws into the world. The leaves had begun to turn to their bright yellows, reds, and oranges. They blew, crinkling on the paved pathways and twisting around my legs like vines on a trellis. I heard the telltale soft footsteps begin behind me, nearly echoing mine as I walked. I continued for some time, waiting until I reached a metal bench near a scenic lake. I sat, feeling the cold metal, chilled by the winds. Turning my head, I saw a tall, lanky man in a dark coat adorned with a bowler hat atop his head. He sported sunglasses as if attempting to hide his eyes. He approached and sat next to me, not turning his head by any degree.
I kept my composure but was inwardly panicked, and pricks of fear ran through me, just as severely as the first time I had seen it. The man lifted his hand and removed the glasses, folding them neatly and tucking them into his coat pocket. Then, he spoke, still staring directly ahead. “Don’t drive tomorrow. Take public transport.” His voice was silky and firm, like expensive leather. It caught me so off guard to hear it speak finally that my voice was unstable and my heart was racing. “W-what?” I asked, shocked, but excited at the same time.
“Take the bus tomorrow. We need you alive.” He wasn’t answering my questions. “Why? Who are you? What are you?” He turned to face me. The brilliant void of indigo bore into me. “We need you alive.” Despite my protests, he stood up, slipped his glasses back on, and began walking away. Anger surged over me. I yelled after him. “Hey! Who are you? Answer my question, you damned thing!”
The thing never turned around. He walked off and disappeared from my vision. Suddenly the fear and anxiety came surging in. That thing was sitting right next to me. It spoke to me. Thoughts sped through my head. You wasted your chance to talk to it, them. Why me? Why are these things stalking me? It’s been twenty-five years! Were these things evil? Good? Why do they need me alive? Then another alarming thought crossed my head. It said us. There was more than one, God knows how many. My head was spinning, it was what I now realize was a panic attack. I began to heave, still sitting on the empty park bench. I eventually gathered myself and rushed out of the park, suddenly feeling the familiar but still spine-chilling sense of being watched.
The next day, before heading to my work, the bank where I still work to this day, I almost grabbed my keys before remembering what the thing had said. Despite all the fear and pain, these things had caused me, I decided to play it safe. I took the bus that day. Nothing had happened to me or my car that day, but the news two days later informed me of a massive pile-up on the highway, right at the stoplight. The highway that I always took. At the exact time, I would have been at the stoplight. After this experience, I couldn’t figure out what these things were trying to accomplish. They had saved my life, but for what reason? Why did they need me alive?
Only three months later, on a snowy Wednesday in December 2016, they appeared to me again. This time, there was more than one. I was set manning the bank’s front desk, two weeks before Christmas. It was a quiet day, with only one customer in the three and a half hours I had worked so far. I was the only teller working that day, so I was all alone. I was rearranging the objects on my desks, not accomplishing anything but keeping my mind busy for a while when the door swung open. A frigid wind blew in, bringing several snowflakes inside with it.
Three average-looking people entered, two tall men and a short woman. All three were dressed for the weather, with thick jackets and winter boots. Dusting of snow sprinkled their clothes, and they tracked some in as they approached my desk. Their heads were tilted down, and the sickly fear was in my stomach. I knew what I was going to see when they looked up.
They reached the desk, with the woman leading. “You listened.” Her voice was soft and very feminine. “What do you want from me?” This time my tone was firm. Anger and frustration flowed through me, giving me sudden confidence. I got no answer. I spoke, even more demanding. “Why are you here?” One of the men spoke up. “To thank you, and request you listen again.” “Listen to what?” I was getting angrier by the minute. I wanted these things gone. I wanted to live my life peacefully, with constantly being followed.
“We saved you last time, didn’t we?” The woman again. “Yes, you did.” “Then listen again. Don’t come to work tomorrow and the day after. Buy food and water. Stay home.” Not another disaster. “What do you want from me?” The woman looked up, staring into me with the indigo voids. “We need you safe and alive.” Then they turned and left, walking out into the slowly dropping temperatures. Leaving me with my head spinning, just as they did last time. I stood at that desk for another hour, with no more business, and my shift eventually ended.
No matter how much they scared me, they were right last time, so I listened again. I stopped at the store and stocked up on food and water, still in the dazed state the indigo eyes entities had left me in. After getting home, I called off the rest of the week. Before attempting any sleep, I checked the weather. It was still snowing, but nothing severe.
Overnight, the storm worsened exponentially. It became the worst blizzard Washington State had seen in over three centuries. Forty dead, thirteen missing. I was stuck inside for five days. They were right again. They had told the truth and saved me again. If I had been on the road or at work, I might have become one of the dead or missing. I know I would have become one of them. They would not have warned me if I wasn’t in mortal danger.
After that encounter, they didn’t appear to me until the spring of 2018. I had been seeing a woman named Rebecca. Winter was just releasing its icy grip, and finally, the world began to warm. It was one of the first warm days of the year, and it was a sunny, cloudless day. I decided to take her to the annual Port Grove Spring Fair as our second date.
There were people everywhere. Crowds were forming fast, but we managed to stay together. The fair atmosphere set an airy and carefree mood. We played games at booths, ate unhealthy fair food, and rode some of the pop-up rides the city had set up. One of the main attractions was a Ferris wheel set up in the town park, not far from the lake in which I sat and spoke with one of the entities. We waited in line, and I clearly remember the smell of greasy fair food and the sounds of the chattering crowds on all sides of us. After a short wait, we boarded the car, and soon it cranked into motion.
We rose ever higher, taking in the view, until the car stopped near the top. After all, it wasn’t a very tall ride. The city, lit up by various booths, was beautiful. I sat in awe for several minutes, until Rebecca slipped her hand into mine. I smiled at her, then returned to take in the view. As the car began to get lower, and we got closer to the crowds surging below us, my spirits dropped as I noticed a group of people in the crowd. They were all wearing long, black jackets. As I looked at them, they gazed up at me. I already knew what I was going to see, but it shook me and sent the now familiar red-hot dread down my throat and into my stomach.
They stared at me, not breaking eye contact. Even though they had no whites nor pupils, I felt direct eye contact. Rebbeca broke me from the trap of their gaze by repeatedly saying my name. “Jason! Jason!” It felt as if I had just been pulled from an icy bath. “Huh?” “What’s the matter? Is everything okay?” I shook myself to clear my head. “Yeah, yeah. Perfectly fine. Just zoned out.”
She looked at me with a kind of timid curiosity but forgot it just as quickly as it had happened. I looked back out at the crowd.
I lost them. But they’re still in that crowd somewhere. I still felt their presence. As soon as we touched the ground again, a dull buzzing sound began in my ears. I spotted one in the crowd, some distance away. At first, I couldn’t make out what it was doing, but once my eyes focused, I saw it was beckoning me. The whole world seemed to fall silent, except for the buzzing that persisted, bouncing around my eardrums and into my skull. Another cold chill climbed down my spine. Panic took over my brain, and I grabbed Rebecca’s hand and pulled her through the crowd, away from the beckoning entity. “What are you doing? Jason?”
I didn’t respond but continued into a quiet alleyway. The buzzing stopped almost as soon as I turned the alleyway corner. “What are you doing? Are you sure you’re okay?” I made up an excuse. I couldn’t tell her about them, not yet at least. “Yeah, I’m just terrible with crowds.” She looked at me with piercing eyes, and I knew she didn’t fully believe my lies.
“Just tell me next time, okay?” “Yeah, will do.” She shot me a smile. “So do you want to leave, or will you be okay? I want to check out some more games.” Inwardly terrified, but not showing it, I had agreed to stay a while longer.
I followed her back out into the crowd, scanning every face around me. We made our way across the way and to a row of booth games. It was much less crowded, which made me feel a little safer. We played the games, winning small stuffed animals and fair prizes, all of which I ended up giving to her. Several hours passed, with no sign of any of the entities. We stopped and rode rides, and at ten at night we left. I drove her home, dropped her off, helped her haul all of the items we had won, then said goodnight and left. Ten minutes later, I pulled into my apartment’s parking lot, across the street from the building. I exited my car, locked it up, and crossed the quiet, dimly lit street.
The solitary streetlight set the yellow hue and kept me company with its dull buzzing. Except it wasn’t the streetlights noise. The buzzing grew steadily louder, freezing me in the middle of the deserted street. It ravaged my brain, sending shooting pain through my ears and into my head. I collapsed on my knees, holding my head. A crack shot through the air, sending sparks floating to the ground like fireworks. The streetlamp had burst, plunging the street into complete darkness. The buzzing deafened me, leaving only one sound in my head.
The soft footsteps. Those light treading steps that I had first heard in the woods behind my childhood home. Through the blinding pain, I turned and looked behind me, toward the parking lot. Standing silently on the street curb was a tall, dark-featured man. He was facing me, but I couldn’t make out his eyes. I didn’t need to. It was one of them. It began to speak, and as it did, the pain and buzzing immediately stopped. “We called for you. Why didn’t you respond?” This time its tone was rougher, more demanding. “Why won’t you leave me alone?” It looked up, directly at me, revealing the deep shade of indigo that resided in its sockets. “You would be dead if not for us. We need you alive, so listen to us when we call you.” My fear quickly took a turn to anger. “None of you have even told me why you need me alive! How can I trust you?”
“There are things in this world you are not meant to understand. All I can tell you is we need you alive because that is why we were sent. We are the protectors in this situation. We do not want to harm you.” I stood up and faced it. “Then why appear from the shadows? Why just haunt me?” “Our way of appearing to you is necessary. If others saw us, our purpose would be unfulfilled. We were sent to protect you.” It hesitated for a moment, then spoke again. “I must go now. Next time we call, answer. We mean no harm, only to warn you and keep you safe.” It turned and walked into the darkness, leaving my mind spinning. But they never called me again.
That was the last time they appeared to me for years, until this summer, when they appeared to me for a final time. This last appearance was what prompted me to write all my story down, lest I forget it. I stopped seeing Rebecca a year ago. What we had had simply faded out. Today I was alone in my apartment, cooking in my small kitchenette. Even though life had been going well, what the entity had said that night after the fair still lingered in my head, coming back to me and making my head spin every time. It was still all so vague and unexplained. None of it made sense. I put those thoughts to the back of my head and focused on cooking, turning on the radio to drown out the thoughts even more.
The chirping of birds and the sounds of passing cars flew in through the open window above my stove. The blaring of classic rock anthems, with the sounds of cars passing and birds chirping near the open window, set my cooking into motion. I was cooking chicken in a skillet, and the smell of spices wafted up, filling my nose with their invigorating scent.
I put rice in a pot, letting it slowly come to a boil. The chicken had finished, and just as I took the heat off of the rice pot, everything outside went dead silent. Immediately my heart sank into my chest. The music went silent next, replaced by the sounds of the telltale soft footsteps that always accompanied the indigo-eyed entities. I slowly turned, on the ball of my feet. My high spirits were instantly crushed when all the sounds outside suddenly went silent.
I felt the color drain from my face as I switched off the radio, plunging myself into absolute silence. I turned, and standing directly behind me was the same entity that appeared to me that night. I had known they would come back eventually, but the respite from them, no matter how brief, had brought a sense of peace and security into my life. Now that was shattered in a single moment.
Standing behind me, in the mouth of my kitchen, was the same entity that had appeared to me many times before. It stood so tall it could barely stand in the frame of the doorway. I avoided direct eye contact, even though I knew what I would see if I did. We both stood, unmoving. I waited for it to speak. Time felt slow, with the several seconds that passed melting into what felt like hours.
“I have been sent to relay a message. The one who sent us no longer requires us to watch over you. You are in no danger. Only now can I tell you why we have been sent?” It paused momentarily, waiting for its words’ impact to set in. “We were watching over you long before the first time we appeared to you. What we are has been described as Guardian Angels. We watch over most people on this Earth, although we only appear to a select few. Many have felt our presence, but we only appear to a very select few” Through my shock, I managed to let out a few words. “Why am I one of those who get to see you?”
It made eye contact with me, and it kept it while it continued to speak. “Your grandmother. She was able to break the veil, the thin line of contact between the physical world and the spiritual one. She set us to watch over you, and you in particular have the same ability to see through the veil that she did. She sent us to protect you and your mother. We kept our promise, watching over you and your mother, even to the day she passed. She wasn’t able to see us, but she felt our presence. After this day, we will not appear to you again. There is no danger in your future. You may now have your peace. We did not mean to cause you a sense of danger throughout the years, but we had to keep our real purpose veiled.” I felt floods of emotions rolling over me, tears beginning to well in my eyes.
“Why couldn’t you have told me all this before?” It still didn’t break eye contact. “Part of our promise was not to reveal our intentions until we knew there was no danger in your future. This is our final goodbye. Farewell.” It turned, walked through the doorway, and began to fade, almost disappearing into thin air. Almost as if fading beyond the lines of what is known and what is not. Disappearing as quickly as it had come.
I haven’t seen or felt their presence in any form since our last encounter. Sometimes, I wish they would reappear and provide me with closure. However, I know it’s unlikely given the lack of signs. Even the flow of nature around me doesn’t seem to stop anymore. If they are still observing me, it must be from afar, beyond the veil. While I’m only in the early autumn of my life, the indigo entities have assured me that our experiences together have come to an end. Their message has convinced me that certain things in life are predetermined and beyond our control. I’ve written this for my own peace of mind, but if anyone else reads this, please keep an open mind. Things aren’t always as they seem.