The Dark Being

THE DARK BEING

The man sat nervously on the sofa across from me. His unease was palpable not just in his jittery mannerisms, but in the trembling edge to his voice.

"I came to you because you're the only one who can deal with this. I can't take it anymore he's always there, always following me. Is it a demon? Only you can tell me."

Though I was seated in a chair, gazing directly at him, I felt utterly detached as though I was seeing the scene from outside my own body. The room around me appeared ordinary, yet it seemed to merge with my very being, like I had become one with the space itself.

In that moment, I realized I was experiencing an out-of-body state. Suddenly, I found myself standing by the window, staring into the vast nothingness that loomed beyond. It was then that I sensed a presence beside me a being whose energy radiated calmness and serenity. A wave of angelic peace swept over me, and with it came a profound clarity: I understood everything the source of this turmoil, what was needed, and how this ordeal would end.

Turning back toward my guest, I saw the fear etched in his eyes deepen as his entire demeanour crumbled. He was transfixed; his gaze locked on something behind me. I followed his line of sight and there it was.

A tall, shadowy figure stood before us, blacker than the blackest night a shape that would appear stark even in total darkness. Many would instinctively label it as evil, but I could feel its essence: not malice, but sorrow. Its darkness was born of a profound sadness and hopelessness a manifestation of raw, unrelenting emotion.

I was back on the sofa, deep in conversation with my guest. “Where are you from? Where did you live before?” I asked, leaning forward with genuine curiosity.

He answered, and the name of the place struck a chord. I recognized it. I had lived there once in a sprawling house, long ago, in another life. I remembered vividly how, as a child in those early Victorian years, I’d watched the construction of a massive asylum, a monument to the era’s attempts to contain what they could not understand.

I mentioned this to him.

“Yes, it’s still there,” he replied quickly, his tone laced with a mix of nostalgia and unease. “It’s empty now, just a crumbling ruin.”

“Did you ever go inside?” I asked.

“Oh, often. There are apple trees on the grounds. We used to collect the fruit it would have gone to waste otherwise.”

As our conversation drew to a close, I offered him words of comfort, and we said our goodbyes. Yet, even then, I knew what needed to be done.

The scene shifted suddenly, as if a veil had been pulled away, and there it was before me. The asylum. Once a grand, imposing edifice from a childhood that felt like a distant echo of another life, it now stood abandoned, decayed, and forgotten. Its proud architecture was fractured and weary, yet the essence of its former inhabitants lingered. Those who had called this place home the forsaken, the trapped remained, tethered to its crumbling walls.

I stood silently, staring at the broken facade. A presence stirred near me, inseparable from my own. Then, one by one, they appeared. Men, women, and children from generations past, spanning over two centuries. They filed past me, their heads bowed, their footsteps steady. Though not one met my gaze, I knew their faces as if they had always been a part of me.

Finally, the shadowy figure I had seen with my visitor appeared. But now, he began to change. The darkness that enveloped him faded, his features became clear, and for the first time, his expression softened into a knowing smirk a gesture of acknowledgment, of gratitude. He lingered for a moment, then followed the others, disappearing into the distance.

In my book, Life Among the Spirits, I recount experiences of clearing spaces while asleep events that clients later confirm in striking detail. Was this another of those moments? Had I once again cleansed a place in my dreams? The experience had been vivid, seamless, and deeply real. I am certain it was.

Irene Allen Block