I’ve run out of options, and I need your help.
It’s been over five years since I woke up at my local police station in Brighton, blood drenching my clothes and coagulated on my skin, with no idea how I got there.
The officers interviewed me and I told them as much; I have no idea how I got here, or where this absurd amount of blood came from. I was there for hours giving the same answers before they finished processing me and let me go. The last thing I remembered was parking up in front of my house- how I walked into the police station a few hours later in that state was as perplexing for me as it was them. No cuts or marks of any kind on me, which created more confusion upon testing the blood to be mine. When they were done with me, I was sent home and life continued as if that bizarre experience was just a fever dream.
Until it happened again.
Same story, almost. I parked out front of my house and just like that, with the familiar tacky feeling coating my body and weighing down my clothing, I found myself back in a police station- but not the same station as before, that was the main difference. This time it was in Switzerland.
Fear knotted in the core of my being as I took in the unfamiliar surroundings. The cold, sterile air of the foreign police station sent shivers down my spine. The officers spoke in a language I couldn’t understand, their words a jumble of consonants and vowels that only added to my disorientation- panic set in as I realised that this insanity had escalated to a new level.
Days turned into weeks as I struggled to communicate or comprehend what had happened. The Swiss authorities, unable to decipher my story or reason how this had happened, released me with a mix of suspicion and pity. With no passport or record of me being in the country, the top theory was that I’d been the victim of trafficking. I returned home to find a depressing lack of evidence that anyone had looked for me at all, trying to push that to the side while I attempted to clamber my life back into shape.
As months passed, the cycle continued. I would awaken in different police stations across the globe, the blood-soaked episodes remaining the same otherwise. The blood was determined to be mine down to the antigens, so there was never a crime seeming to have been committed. Each instance left me isolated and spiralling into a state of hopelessness. I quit my job before they fired me, and my housing stability was dependent on how evasive I was of the mortgage collectors. I can’t recall the last person I’ve seen, other than police officers and the family who run my local coroner shop.
My world became a blur of stations, foreign landscapes, and consistent all-encompassing dread. The cycle seemed to have a cruel mind of its own, tearing me away from any semblance of security. One second I’m living my life as I do every other day, vanish into thin air, profusely bleed what I can only describe is an entire person’s worth of blood, and then I’m in the next station.
Desperation turned into obsession; I lived and breathed the limited memories of the events I had and evidence I’d collected. It took an embarrassingly long time before I thought to put a camera doorbell pointed at my driveway, but as if this was a known factor, the next time it happened I was making dinner in the kitchen. When I got home from my ‘trip’ to Limavady, the sad looking microwave meal was still waiting to be plated up. I filled my house with CCTV and splashed holy water at the walls for good measure. It didn’t change anything except fuel my blind rage to solve this.
I sought the help of medical experts, psychologists, a few priests, and at one particularly low point, Yvette Fielding. Some didn’t take me seriously (thanks for that, Yvette) and the rest couldn’t find anything concrete as to why this might happen. I was told I was everything from sleepwalking to schizophrenic, and/ or accused of having a link to an alternate dimension in my driveway. Nothing cured me, and soon after I found myself soaked in blood with the Fort Worth sun beating on my skin through the window of yet another station. This time it was a convenient power cut that stopped me seeing what happened.
I’ve been home for four weeks now, and I’m no closer to understanding what is going on. There’s no way to know when it’s going to happen, and I don’t know if there’s anything I can do to stop it.
Whatever you’ve got, I’ll try. I’ve run out of options- please, I need your help.