Tulpa is a concept from Tibetan mythologies and Buddhist scriptures, based in Theosophy, mysticism, and the paranormal, of a materialized being or thought-form*, typically in human form that is created through spiritual practice and intense concentration. Modern practitioners, who call themselves “tulpamancers”, use the term to refer to a type of willed imaginary friend which practitioners consider to be sentient and relatively independent. Controlling a Tulpa is extremely difficult, and when left unchecked, a Tulpa can wreck havoc.*
The following piece was inspired from a short story that I read nearly a decade ago, but has been banging inside my head, demanding to be let out. That is what I’m doing.
Rose stood in front of the locker room mirrors, tears streaming down her face, causing her meticulously applied makeup to smudge and run. Her hands shielded her eyes, preventing her from witnessing her reflection, yet the cruel taunts and insults from her fellow students echoed in her mind with clarity.
“Freak,” they had jeered,
“Loser,”
“Ugly.”
Each label that surfaced sent tremors through her body, and she wept into her palms.
“Slut.”
“Whore.”
At that moment, she contemplated whether she’d be better off dead to escape the torment of their voices.
However, as thoughts of escape and suicide began to gnaw at her, the sound of the locker room door opening broke the silence. Her heart raced as she strained to hear the creaking hinges announcing the arrival of another student. Suppressing her tears and sobs, Rose cautiously raised her head, attempting to catch a glimpse of the newcomer in the mirror.
But she only saw her reflection, marred by her perception of ugliness, weakness, and hopelessness. These self-deprecating thoughts cut deep, piercing her heart. Yet, as they cut, they unearthed an emotion she had suppressed for far too long: hatred. Rage surged through her veins, replacing her pain and despair with seething hatred.
The more she stared into her black, makeup-smeared eyes, the more her thoughts shifted from self-destruction to a darker idea—harming those who tormented her.
Rose began to detect a faint sound behind her amid these newly formed, albeit disturbing, thoughts. It was low, faint, and distant, nothing akin to a departing student’s cheerful or casual chatter. This was laughter, but not light-hearted; it was cold, dark, and malevolent.
With it came a creeping sense of fear and dread, shrouding her and overpowering her hatred and pain. Cold sweat dampened her forehead, and paralysis gripped her legs, for this laughter was not that of a fellow student; it was a man’s laughter.
Then, just as abruptly as it had begun, the laughter ceased, vanishing into the air. The next sound Rose heard was the door closing, followed by the unmistakable sound of a deadbolt locking her in. And just when her immediate panic was beginning to subside, and the idea of fleeing crossed her mind, all the lights in the room extinguished, plunging her into darkness.
A single sound pierced the silence in that pitch-black, frigid room: heavy, deliberate footsteps drawing closer.
To claim that Rose’s anger had dissipated would be a blatant lie, just as asserting that her pain and sadness had vanished. They still lingered beneath her skin, overshadowed by her current state of fear and panic. Her heart raced beyond any rate attainable through exercise, yet she lacked the energy to act.
Each step the stranger took drained the breath from her body, thwarting any attempt to flee. Images of her death crept back into her thoughts. Still, not of suicide or violence against others—instead, her own lifeless body, concealed in some obscure corner of the locker room, haunted her imagination.
“Rose,” a voice called out. Rose jumped and let out a startled scream, for the voice did not originate in front of her but behind. Whirling around, she strained to see in the darkness but discerned nothing. Adrenaline coursed through her legs, but fear rooted her in place.
She continued to turn, searching for the source of the voice. “ Rose,” it called again, still from behind. The footsteps had ceased, and so had Rose. Slowly, steadily, she completed her turn. Above her, a dim light flickered on, revealing her reflection, the sink, and the mirror.
” Rose, I’m right here.” The voice was soft, barely audible, and directly in front of her.
Blinking in the sudden light, Rose noticed something peculiar—a blurry figure hovering above her head. Her breath caught in her throat when she realized what it truly was: the intruder’s face. His hair, black with red streaks, framed his face, and he wore a black mask that concealed everything except his piercing yellow eyes.
Those eyes locked onto hers, making her feel vulnerable, exposed, and defenseless. She could feel her heart galloping, and for a moment, the world started to turn topsy-turvy. She wanted to scream, but her voice failed her, and she dared not flee, knowing she wouldn’t get far with the intruder so close.
“Hello, Rose.”
She could now clearly hear the voice, but it defied her expectations. It was low, cold, and distant, a stark contrast to the figure standing before her, who appeared as if he would possess a deep and menacing voice. Despite the voice’s darkness, it held an alluring quality, not threatening but enticing. Yet, there was something about his eyes that unsettled her.
It wasn’t just their terrible, eerie color; it was something deeper, a sense of foreboding, like the certainty that something terrible would occur. After a prolonged silence, Rose mustered the courage to speak.
“W-who…” Swallowing the last vestiges of her immediate fear, she finished, “Who are you?”
The figure responded with a slow, lingering breath of laughter that swirled around her, chilling her to the bone like a serpent constricting around her heart.
“That is an excellent question, Rose, and I assure you, we will explore that later. For now, tell me, what can I do for you?” His words flowed like silk, intertwining almost like a spell.
“What do you mean?” Rose inquired, perplexed.
The figure chuckled softly. “I mean precisely what you’re thinking. I can assist you if you wish. Assist you in ridding yourself of them.” Rose shuddered, realizing that, somehow, he was delving into her thoughts. At that moment, the girls’ taunts and the pain and hatred they brought resurfaced.
“You need not run; I bear you no harm.”
“But why are you here?”
“Rose, dear, dear Rose …” She sensed a hand slowly resting on her right shoulder. Startled, she tried to look down, but to her surprise, nothing was there. “I am your vengeance.”
Vengeance.
The word was pronounced with enthusiasm, like a child on Christmas Eve. Rose was left speechless. In the mirror, the pair of yellow eyes narrowed, becoming slits. If she didn’t know any better, she would have said that the figure was grinning behind his black mask. “What are you going to do?”
The figure’s eyes widened slightly. “Me? Oh, dear, Rose …” As she coughed, Rose noticed a smoky scent filling the air. She began to cough, her gaze fixated on the mirror, where the figure was slowly fading, his features dissipating into mist.
“I’m you.”
“What?” Amid her coughing fits, Rose thought she heard the clatter of metal. “What do you mean?” But it was too late, for as she turned around, the lights snapped on, and she found herself alone once more.
However, her eyes were drawn to something on the floor, not far from where the figure had seemed to stand. Approaching cautiously, she bent down to examine the object. Clasping her hand around the ominous, wicked rifle, she heard the figure’s voice.
“The choice is yours, Rose. End your pain, or purge their sins.”