Last Chance

Writer's Note

I'm John. I hear voices and I need to tell you what they're saying. (How's that for a pickup line?) I left atheism in 2024, at age 38, after months of nightly interactions with vivid dreams and disembodied voices during hypnagogia, the half-conscious state between sleeping and waking. The dreams and voices know all thoughts and life experiences of the past, present, and future. The dreams and voices have an offer. The final opportunity to accept is now: the last chance.

Introduction

If the idea of Christianity or proselytizing offends you, don't worry—it offended me too. I'd talk about myself more, but it could trigger assumptions. I'll introduce myself as needed. This document is for everyone.

This testimony presents my truth of Christianity over atheism through a series of bizarre events stemming from a spiritual gift from God. The evidence is anecdotal, sure, but I hope any logical thinker will see undeniable patterns in this series of inexplicable paranormal phenomena.

I wanted to disbelieve more than anyone, but disbelief didn't make it go away. This isn't how I wanted human reality to work. I often researched at my desk to invalidate the Bible and other religions to build a kind, inclusive, and egalitarian world free of intolerance, judgment, and divine wrath. I righteously rejected unsubstantiated dogma for the social progress of humanity.

It didn't work.

About the Document

Last Chance unfolds as a dated journal, chronologically. Posts are divided into documentation and interpretation. Sections (parts 1–5) contain messages tied to a single overarching, sometimes obscured, goal.

It's a slice of my otherwise dull biography. I keep it brief and humorous when possible, but accuracy and honesty always come first. I hope this testimony will reach certain readers given its unusual premise. It's not a change of heart through feeling guilt, finding the Bible, or joining a church group—it's a divine attack on my autonomy that forced me to discard my way of life under the threat of eternal damnation.

God is real. People like me go to hell.

The Gift — How It Came

I was always curious about the paranormal but only as an armchair investigator. Unsolved Mysteries and Sightings were my first exposures at a young age, but I didn't want any part of religiosity or spirituality, especially in my late thirties. I'm not a psychic or ghost hunter, and I don't channel or meditate. I just have weird dreams.

🌙 "You Have the Gift"

Around the New Year of 2016, I had a vivid dream. I bounded in low gravity across cylindrical pedestals until I reached a wall of balconies. The closest balcony led to a series of interconnected bedrooms in soft greys and lavenders. A twin bed and a ladder stood in the middle of one bedroom, so I climbed and proceeded through an opening to another bedroom. A toddler sat with three eyes—one in its forehead—and communicated: "You have the gift."

The dream was surreal and unforgettable but meant nothing. What gift? If I were psychic, I'd have known by thirty. Life didn't change until 2024, another eight years, when I began to have informational dreams almost nightly.

Specifically, I experience hypnagogic images, sounds, and most importantly, voices (clairaudience). The phenomena occur only with hypnagogia, the period between waking and sleeping (or sleeping and waking). Vocal messages sometimes reference dreams that follow or precede them. I sort occurrences into three types: dreams, visions, and voices.

The Gift — How It Works

It happens every day (hopefully). It's not limited to sleep; it happens in any drowsy moment, like meditating, napping, or reading. It responds to thought, prayer, and behavior—what I think, ask, and do throughout my day. Activity usually spikes after midnight and on Sundays.

About Timeline Documentation

I experienced a series of strange dreams in the summer of 2024. When it continued for months, I decided to document everything. Each morning, I woke up, made coffee, and typed the night's dreams into Apple Notes. Though I didn't write initially, I shared the strangest dreams with friends in another time zone. Apple iMessage's timestamps produced a near-perfect record, back to mentions of the first dreams. A few early messages had to be chronicled by memory alone. Emoji headlines denote supernatural occurrences and messages. Uncertain phrases appear in [braces], but their message is accurate.

🌙 Dreams

Lucid dreaming occurs when dreamers realize they're dreaming. I was intrigued by lucid dreams as a teenager, the first time I (briefly) kept a dream journal. It was fun for a few weeks. The prophetic type I experienced in 2024 mixed conscious thought and restricted action—a dream you can't wake up from.

📺 Visions

Do people have one-second dreams? It's new to me. Visions are one-second snapshots, like an iPhone's Live Photo feature. They're always adjacent to consciousness, either as I drift off or wake up. Sometimes, the visions show text, like notebook paper and scripture, Apple iMessages, or even the StarCraft II game lobby chat room. Sometimes I can only read part of the text before it fades as I wake fully.

📞 Voices

The disembodied voices are the most profound of all the phenomenon. In 2023, as I woke, I heard talking. Was someone just talking to me? I assumed my auditory brain dreamed before my visual mind and dismissed it. The voice isn't always of the same clarity or tone. I've heard the voice of God, Jesus Christ, an angel, and evil spirits.

Final Note

This is not a narrative of inner peace or spiritual freedom through religion; it's a realization of the obligation to sacrifice one's worldly life for radical obedience, lest—for fear that—they be hewn down and cast into the fire (Matthew 3:10).

Part I — Last Chance

Daily spiritual phenomena began in June 2024, when I hired on as an assistant manager at a gas station chain. Despite the lowly title, the good position got better after a transfer to my hometown. It included scheduled overtime, and they were usually desperate for help.

I'd still have that job today if God hadn't told me to quit or die and go to hell.

But we have to start at the beginning.

Jun 03 Mon — Welcome to Speedway

My first day at Speedway was six hours of orientation, or so I expected. I drove most of an hour to a tiny gas station on an old main street. I was overwhelmed by the absolute dump of a building. There were no ancient gas stations in my town, only recently-built mini-marts on state highways.

The store manager gave me a shirt and told me to change in a cramped bathroom behind a paper-thin door only three feet from the register—a privacy deprivation chamber. Large companies typically have days of computer training before any real work can be done. Well, they don't call it Speedway for nothing. Shelly, a multi-store manager, Mike, a pre-existing assistant manager trainee, and myself made up the management team at the little store.

I fell into the fast lane "at the convenience stores of… Speedway!" I drove nearly an hour in, worked nine hours without any company-sanctioned breaks or lunches, and had an hour ride home. Things went well for a few weeks as I adjusted. Then weird stuff happened. I had a bizarre and unforgettable dream and a lot of time on the road to think about it.

Jul ?? ??? — Dreams of Fields

Here we go.

🌙 Writing on the Wall

I dreamed of a dusky, wind-swept field under a plum-and-tan streaked sky. I saw a rendition of myself in an exasperated pose—palms upward, fingers clawed—yelling at the sky: "What do you want from me?" The scene cut to a vintage green chalkboard with "LAST CHANCE" written across it. I awoke.

The dream lasted only a few seconds. It was like a movie—no autonomy, no control. Now what? Last chance for what? What do you want from me? I chalked it up to subconscious pressure to succeed at work, or maybe something I ate. I didn't overthink it, but I couldn't forget it. I'd find out soon enough, in another dream.

Jul 16 Tue — WRATH OF GOD

That escalated quickly.

📺 Picture Frame

I dreamed a brief vision, a one-second snapshot: a man, a woman, and a small child posed together in a hazy oval. I saw no background, no other details. It was a family picture. Then:

❓ THAT'S WHAT CHRISTIANITY IS

(I forgot whether it came audibly or visually.) I was insulted. I had no interest in child-rearing or even dating. I spent almost two decades single, with one two-year relationship between and a few dates on either side.

"I don't want that," I thought.

📞 "WRATH OF GOD"

That's what I heard. It came in reply with auditory properties occurring only in my head, and to this day, it's the most detailed instance of "The Voice of God" I've ever experienced. Its sonority was vast and drawn out—full of presence, not loudness. It was a sound as big as the sky itself; it would surely take mountains of amplifiers and speakers miles away to simulate. The sentiment and tone were a shrug: your choice.

I asked, "If you're going to condemn me, then maybe I need to talk to Jesus?"

📞 "WHO DO YOU THINK YOU'RE TALKING TO"

Yep. Many refuse to believe this is God or Jesus: "He doesn't talk that way." That's fine. Keep reading.

Jul ?? ??? — Polly Pocket

My CD collection was my teenage hobby, and it continued through my twenties. A longtime friend shared my interest in Korean pop during 2011–2012. The next dream referenced these details.

🌙 Doll House

I dreamed of a small house with a fireplace and chimney. It appeared too simple, fake, as if its complexity were only that of a dollhouse or an artist's rendition. My camera angle looked downward at a forty-five-degree angle. Half of the roof was cut away, revealing a tiny single room. In the room, on the floor, a friend and I sat together before a glowing fireplace. Smoke rose from the chimney and spelled words in the night sky:

A LAW HAS BEEN PASSED: IF YOU SMOKE, YOU WILL LOSE EVERYTHING

The camera zoomed in, focusing on us. The friend made an exaggerated but not incorrect pronunciation of a Japanese artist's name, emphasizing the syllables, pitch, and cadence like a native speaker. We giggled almost girlishly at his impression. Piano music played as the dream faded, a recurrent pattern.

The dream ended on a serious, comical, and musical note. The threat of loss: my job, my life? A punishment? Maybe a random drug test after an accident at work? Perhaps it wasn't a threat but a warning meant to help me. I commuted almost an hour each way on a state highway, I worked in a kitchen with ovens and sharps, and I encountered hostile customers. Anything was possible.

I used marijuana for twenty years, from age 18 to 38. For the first ten years, it meant being out every night with friends. Things changed when I quit cigarettes after ten years, in 2013. For the latter decade, weed was something I only did alone and in tiny amounts but still most days. In fact, I smoked so little, the cost amounted to almost nothing annually.

Life at Speedway moved too fast for the evening puff. I didn't have the time. It was just a coincidence, a matter of logistics. I didn't let dreams control my life.

Your last chance…
You'll lose everything…

Jul ?? ??? — Whenever, Wherever

The next dream came one week later, right on schedule, with a death threat.

🌙 TWO WEEKS TWO MONTHS TWO YEARS

In a foggy but bright hilltop intersection, a man in black concert attire with head tattoos walked past and grinned at me. I couldn't move. I'll just have to wait and see what happens. An air horn cut through the sad strings. The silver grill of a semi rapidly approached and slammed my viewpoint backward down the street and left into a yard (the shoulder). (It was as if my car had been parked in the oncoming lane.) I heard/understood something as it happened:

Two weeks, two years, two months

Sorrow hung over the intersection, accompanied by mournful music composed of only strings or a lone violin (a pattern). The fog was notable, as it seemed brightly lit from above, like a morning fog. It was a weather pattern that would be difficult or impossible naturally. I sat in a car, assumedly, but I recall no visuals.

Then I saw a scene down a city alley from a high vantage point. A three-story city staircase ran up the left wall. The interior cutout of the alley had stepped concrete and a couple trucking bays. The area featured random people here and there. They began to float into the air, but a red bar appeared over one, blocking them. The bar resembled the backlit advertisement banner above a cooler door, like a convenience store. Declined. Blocked. I understood why as I squinted to read the marquee above the red-lighted individual:

Masturbators will be left behind.

I didn't actually hear or see the phrase on the cooler marquee; I only thought it as I squinted to read. The dream had a "long fade," where I intentionally held my eyes closed in an effort to see more. I recall my lips moving as part of the squinting–reading as I awoke. Perhaps it was only sensation, not a physiological occurrence.

Your last chance…
You'll lose everything…
You'll be left behind…

I was perplexed with this juxtaposition of something as serious as realistic death by car accident alongside, of all things, the self-service pump. I was instantly opposed to such petty governance, demands and threats over my body. What's next, DON'T PICK YOUR NOSE.

Jul ?? ??? — Hand of God

I found out soon enough. The dreams escalated from threatening to damning. My mood had escalated from curious and uncertain to annoyed and resentful, and I had an hour to brood on the road. I arrived at 5:00 a.m. and cooked breakfast until 6:00 during overlap with the third-shift guy. After that, I was alone until 8:00, sometimes 10:00. I had a lot of time to think.

Heavy Metal

Time to talk about my old CD collection again. I gravitated toward heavy metal—the dark stuff. So that's how I expressed my contempt on my commute that morning: by blasting Deicide's Once Upon The Cross. It was an album so blasphemous and vile that even though I once owned it, I hardly played it. Perhaps a modicum of reverence stopped me through all those years of headbanging. If there is an album more offensive to any would-be Christian God, I don't know it. So, I played it, grumbling about the insulting pettiness of recent experiences.

Maybe I don't even want a "last chance." I bitterly assembled sausage biscuits, egg–cheese muffins, and bacon-egg-and-cheese croissants.

Then the night came:

📞 "WORD ON THE STREET IS…"

The voice of God preceded the first vision of hell that night.

It's very clever—word on the street is, you don't want a last chance. Yes, that is what I thought angrily to myself on the road that morning, wasn't it.

🌙 Hellscape

A black farm field stretched beneath a sky of impossible red. Dried corn husks and stumps of vegetation speckled the dirt. It looked as if something tore through the area. There was a barn here, in the center of the scene, backed by a distant tree wall. The barns four corners remained as singed, splintered edges pillars around collapsed debris. Its face and rear wall at least, were gone.

A wasteland.

😈 "NOW THAT YOU'RE NOT HOLDING GOD'S SANCTIFIED HAND"

It came in a raspy slithering croak: the voice of evil. Then I heard a crowd of voices, an unintelligible cacophony invading the sanctity of my mind. Drugs, stress: no. Those don't do that. Extreme mental illness, maybe? Unwanted thoughts are still your thoughts. A song in your head is not equivalent to a stereo blasting in your environment. This was.

Again: I lay awake in bed and the voices of hell continued. I considered the reality of it. Sleep seemed like the quickest way to escape. (Still, I wonder what would've happened if I'd gotten out of bed.)

Next, I saw an indiscernible area with scattered crowds of people. Three unclothed women were at the front of a crowd in the distance. I recall only one, visually, of whom was exceptionally attractive. As I sat in this place, a dark-skinned woman like the others came before me. Small scabs speckled her bare sides like cheetah print. There was something wrong with these people. Were their bodies rotting? The dream faded:

😈 "THERE'S SO MUCH MORE"

Jul 20 Sat — Date Night

I hadn't had a date in a little over seven years at this point. Now at Speedway, and for the first time since COVID-19, I wanted to meet someone. Online dating was all I knew, so I began to swipe on Tinder.

Work, run, swipe, repeat.

Online dating paid off, finally, ten-thousand swipes later. I matched a cute psychologist with a similar background. We chatted about Nine Inch Nails and other music from our era. I jammed Terrible Lie in revival. It was one of my earliest CDs (important later). I was eager to take her out, and she said she'd "like that very much." So, we planned for dinner next week. When the big day came, she canceled two hours before the reservation.

The day was important not because of the failed date, but how I prepared… in the bathroom. Male tradition. Men's Health. Easing the tension. You know: my body, my choice. No big deal.

Jul ?? ??? — Sidney

The exact date is lost, but it happened within one week or five days of "Date Night."

I dreamed of my late sister at our grandmother's house. The sky was grey, overcast, and without sun such that the time of day was not discernible. Sidney walked by me in the driveway. She was crying, saying, "You started drinking again." She appeared in her youth, not as when she passed in 2020, at age 28. The dream wasn't about my daily cocktail hour, a single Busch Lite at my desk, it was about my "bathrooming," but first:

Sidney was a victim of domestic gun violence two weeks into the COVID-19 Stay-At-Home order. Despite a history of domestic abuse incidents and subsequent mandatory counseling, Robert was allowed to have firearms and keep drinking.

1992–2020

Jul 27 Sat — BATHROOMING

I went back to swiping after the date. Life continued, and since I didn't burst into flames for "clearing my mind" on date night, I figured it was only subconscious pressure that introduced such a ridiculous idea in the first place—I imagined the marquee's message. Besides, it wasn't presented as clearly as the no-smoking dream. So, I did what I needed when I wanted.

But then another dream came, a vision.

📺 White Sweater

I saw a vision just below the neckline of a white knit-sweater filled by a no-doubt beautiful woman. I awoke and agreed readily and fell half asleep to hear an answer:

📺 DEAD

I saw it in response, in type, immediately. DEAD.

"Dead? Why?"

📞 "BATHROOMING"

Oh. The Voice invented a new word with an exact meaning. I was dead from bathrooming. That. Look, it's personal maintenance, not some slavering indulgence at this age. Blow your nose or whatever. Your body, your choice. This was absurd, petty, and ridiculous.

What the snapshot of a shapely woman in a white sweater had to do with this, I didn't know. Yet.

That was it. Days went on. I didn't hear from The Voice anymore. No crazy dreams. Life was boring again. Dead. So, I decided I shouldn't have to waste my time or be held captive by repetitive ritual, routine, or tradition. After all, I was an atheist. My body, my choice.

Aug ?? ??? — A STAY OF EXECUTION

Abstinence. I went without for a couple weeks.

❓ "YOU'VE BEEN GRANTED A STAY OF EXECUTION"

I lost details of the message, likely vocal, but it came after a couple weeks of quiet nights. I had stopped "bathrooming" for the time, so I was "granted a stay of execution." Who talks like that?

What do you do, you know? It gives you instructions, commands, death threats, and it responds one of two ways depending on your choice. I tried my way (DEAD!), and since I didn't have anything else going on, I decided I'd try the other. I'll do like it says, but just to see what happens—get granted a stay of execution after a couple weeks. This is nuts.

Bathrooming had "chaste" it away. (Hey, I lost my bathrooming privileges, not my sense of humor.) Abstaining for a period of 2–3 weeks brought it back. We were talking again! It was back just in time for my unexpected work transfer, and it returned with new demands.

Aug 08 Thu — X-FER

We need some housekeeping on the daily grind in the fast lane.

Work Life

Each day's business is from the same 100 people, thereabout. I knew the regulars now. Jeff sang his order with an uncanny lack of variation: "Two-Ca-mel-Blue." That was his greeting. The Angry Lotto Man was always short and snippy unless a woman was on the register. Sometimes, a death threat came over the phone, "HOW ABOUT I BRING A GUN UP THERE," but I was already accustomed to those nightly.

Work Drama

Shelly was frustrated with Mike. I was first for office training. I felt bad for him, being passed over due to the last administration's incompetence. There were so many little things to juggle, but he was more of a car salesman than a short-order cook, clerk, and housekeeper. He talked to everyone, he knew everyone; it was his town. I tried to help him and keep Shelly calm.

Work Love

I had a few prospective customers, but I was professional, not desperate, even though online dating wasn't exactly working out, ten million swipes later. Socializing with the regulars became easier now that I was a fixture. It could be my town in a few more months.

A Change of Pace

The call came unexpectedly: it was my last day. I agreed to a transfer close to home, the goal all along. I never expected to drive most of an hour to work at a gas station also located ten minutes away. I stopped by the new store. The place was old and yellowed which was appealing aesthetically but also depressing. A clerk appeared through a door behind the register, a tall slender boy with long red hair and dangling earrings. Seth.

I transferred from a small but happening store to a dirty neglected broom closet. Here, I was the store leader. No Shelly, no Mike.

I went home and dreamed.

📞 "YOUR LEADS ARE DISAPPEARING"

I heard the phrase spoken as I had a vision of the cooler doors of my new store. I was barely familiar with them, but I knew the scene, absolutely. I stood before the second or third door from the left. My "leads," the offline women (lol), were disappearing. The transfer killed my chances for a hot date to be kindled in person rather than tindered online.

The phrase is significant because two people said it in one day, oddly. A sales rep. mentioned it in reference to the former manager who quit to hire on with Coke. A beer vendor said it about the cooler's best sellers, the lead products.

Now, about those demands…

Aug 14 Wed — Heavy

Death threats again. What is it this time? I didn't smoke, I didn't take any, uh, liberties upon myself, yet on this morning, I heard:

📞 "MUST LOSE YOUR LIFE"

Great. It's Biblical, denying oneself to follow Christ. I knew those verses even as an atheist, but I didn't read the Bible beyond reference. It seemed radical—selling everything, having nothing, wanting nothing… and then what?

I didn't entirely doubt what I was hearing, but my commitment level was exasperated and begrudged. I cared to go only so far, to believe only so much, still grounded in reasonable rationale. I didn't do anything but go to work and walk the dog. Don't I get a weekend?

Besides, I had other plans today, big ones.

It was a typical 6:00–2:00 PM shift at the new store, and after work, I had plans on Facebook Marketplace: three free tube TVs! This was money-making, work. So, I drove to a millionaire's mansion out east, where I loaded up two 32-inch sets and one 20-inch DVD combo. I did them a huge courtesy, hauling off those cathode-ray behemoths of yesteryear.

Yeah, I collected tube TVs for video games and old shows. I'd refurbish, rewire, and resell them. Everybody's gotta have a hobby. Now that my commute was only fifteen minutes, I could do stuff like this after work.

What a find! (Actual photo, filtered)

File date: Aug. 14, 2024, 3:07:43 PM

Aug 15 Thu — Doomsday Devices

It's fairly straightforward.

📺 THE/YOUR DOOMSDAY

The morning message came visually, text that switched between "THE" and "YOUR," curiously. Doomsday. It troubled me, but I pressed on, into any impending doom. I thought about the previous messages. I wasn't so unfamiliar with scripture that I couldn't make sense of it: a warning about giving up my TV-hoarding lifestyle… immediately hoarding more TVs that day…

Yeah.

I doubled down on my machinations. Subsequently, this was the/my doomsday, I guess. Look, they were free! I did this elderly gentleman a favor—how was that wrong!? It made far more sense as a portent of death than condemnation for collecting free stuff.

Sep 01 Sun — Date Night

Saturday, August 31^st was a big day. I hit my one-billionth swipe and got another date. She was a divorced mother of three. After a couple weeks of evening chat, I made a Saturday night reservation at a steakhouse up north. I recognized her rejection instantly, but we ate and talked for three hours anyway. She said no one had ever brought her flowers before. Still, I knew, so whatever. That's dating. It was after 9:00 PM, and I had a long drive home.

I went to bed before 11:00 and planned to sleep until 3:30 AM to rush to work by 5:00, the standard morning shift for my old store. I knew the date hadn't gone well, so I considered whether or not to flirt with any of my Juliettes as I lay in bed. My question was answered when I woke:

📞 "GET READY FOR SUNDAY. DON'T FLIRT."

I woke for work and felt better than expected. I didn't know what to make of the clear message; Would the woman from the night before want a second date, so don't flirt? Something was bound to happen to answer my questions of romance, as the dreams had said clearly.

My date from last night messaged mid-morning: she felt I wasn't the one for her. Expected. The day passed without event, and I didn't bump into any potential mates for dates. It was shaping up to be a regular day. Time flew by as I wondered what may come.

Nothing came. Nothing happened. Maybe I'll get hit by that semi truck on the way home. I clocked out, walked three steps across the tiny lobby.

It happened.

"Hey John," Mike said. "You know, I don't really have any bros. You want to, like, get out sometime, or something, or whatever?"

Of course not. I'm forty. I don't have time to sit around, get high, and watch the tube even with my friends (my twenties). "Uh, well, I mean, you got my number, just text—"

"And my fiancé. So maybe like a double date—me, you

Nikki

—go get some tacos sometime?"

Horror. Aversion. Nausea. If only I had made it out the door two seconds sooner. "Tacos" meant my hometown, where I worked, where she> lived. Nikki. She must have put him up to this; No man this age, 40, takes workplace matchmaking upon themselves. How did this happen? I had the long drive home to think about it.

This is what God wanted from me?

Part II — Hell

Her.

Married, Mother of Three

I started at the new store on August 8^th, truck day, the first of two days with the outgoing assistant store manager, Nikki. We worked together for exactly two days, 16 hours, as part of the transfer process. Though we held the same title, we were not the same. I represented the company as policy outlined. I wasn't there to have fun, make friends, or be myself. This isn't the neighborhood candy, cigarette, and lotto bar; buy your things, leave, and have a nice day. We had a different concept of the ideal customer service persona.

Typically, the retail environment filters out those who are, well, rougher around the edges. Customer service requires communication, empathy, etiquette, humility, and an air of professionalism. However, the bar is only as high as the one holding it. Here, that was her. She was the type to swear and scream as a badge of authenticity—full-flavored and unfiltered. It was effective with the clientele, too, rallying women and titillating men. Working class regulars rejoiced at the primal freedom she enjoyed from behind the counter.

Nobody believes God would want me to date a married woman, yet it was explicitly and persistently ordered. There were some justifications for God's commandment of such a union. She called her spouse her drug-addict ex-husband, adding the disclaimer: "We're married but separated." She was brimming with bad habits I had shaken a decade ago. I was not at all intrigued by her attitude, conduct, or hobbies.

She wasn't an archetype or of a culture I was anything other than intimately familiar with, however. I was never rude, unpleasant, or unkind. We shared our unsavory life experiences in idle chatter. I considered our time together a break for a couple mild training days, and on my first day alone, I metaphorically clapped my hands and intentionally thought: now it's time to get some work done.

The transfer was not the end of our interactions. She lived in town and occasionally worked at my store in emergencies. My schedule was such that I saw her coming or going to her stores, down in the city.

I decided to completely ignore any ideas of matchmaking.

Sep 08 Sun — Hell

I came home from work, my mom and I made pizza, and I went to bed shortly after. It was a good night.

🌙 HELL

It comes quickly before me: a faceless grim reaper in a black void, a hooded mass of blowing rags with only blackness where a face should be. Somehow, it takes my ankle and lifts my leg while its right arm area projects a spiked spike up through my body vertically. I scream endlessly and instantly at the sight of it and through the attack, which I feel physically as I see the spike extending into my viewpoint. It's a traumatic sound I've never made but it's unmistakably me.

The void sounds like thundering rushing wind. It used me like an object, without hesitation or reaction. I did not matter to it, and nor was it even pleased with itself or its task. It was like a machine, working efficiently and quickly.

The scream is the most upsetting element. Actors don't scream like that. Instantaneous incomparable terror. The fear that came with its presence, even in the instant before it attacked, is notable, as I recall the experience as I write. It's not that it was scary looking; it's that I knew to be afraid of it.

I awoke, heart pounding, lying in bed as I lay in the dream. It lasted about one second. The transition was from thundering screaming terror to the calm of the dimly-lit bedroom, from lying in hell to lying in bed. I felt total despair and hopelessness. I rolled to my side in quiet shock and worthlessly recited the Lord's Prayer. There was a solemn acceptance that nothing could be done; no outpouring of emotion would matter.

📞 "IT'S BEEN A WEEK"

I heard it in my mind. The tone was that of annoyance and ridicule; what are you doing, what's your problem, I thought I told you…

Yes, it had been exactly a week since "Get Ready for Sunday" happened. Yes, I had in fact seen her during the week. And yes, I'd had her phone number all this time, too, ever since I called her (as instructed) about ordering supplies weeks ago.

I don't know if the phrase occurred immediately after the vision of hell, or if I had another sleep sequence. The point: I had not taken action on the double-date first mentioned a week ago, to the day.

It had been a week.

I went to work under duress. I told my church-going coworkers the entire affair. Their reaction progressed from laughter to curiosity. One said, "Marrying Nikki would be hell."

It made sense that she needed help, monetary or otherwise. It seemed like the perfect justice, to see how some of my past ways looked to others. No wonder I was single in my twenties. I found out then: she was not liked by the dedicated senior employees. In fact, they said they nearly quit because of her.

Sep 22 Sun — None Shall Perish

The rendition of perdition disturbed me for weeks. I needed a woman urgently to satisfy the voice, whose identity switched between God and the devil regularly, I decided. God wouldn't want interference in any marriage, and the devil would create misery in any and all ways. God's removal of vices could be the devil's way of petty mocking torment. The command to date the married woman could've been the devil's final blow: ruin other chances in dating, cause drama at work, and further wreck a marriage.

So, I accused it, the voice, of torturing humans for eternity over petty crimes for at least a day or two. (That's the standard atheist position against Abrahamic religions, by the way.) The response is important and I believe it's an absolute case:

📞 "WE TRY TO SAVE EVERYONE"

That's what was happening; something was trying to save me.

Sep 24 Tue — Other Avenues

A week ago, I asked out the store's Red Bull vendor, but she didn't feel the same explosive chemistry. Maybe it was just the extra-dark roast talking. At one point, I asked The Voice about her too, said I thought we'd make a good couple:

📞 "I THINK SO TOO, BUT SHE'S TOO YOUNG FOR YOU"

Whatever. I doubled down on swiping, installed every dating app: Tinder, FaceBook, Bumble, Plenty of Fish—even CHRISTIAN MINGLE! I continued to swipe desperately with new lower standards. Night came and went. I heard:

📞 "YOU WON'T WIN"

I won't win what, another date? There's no woman, no hope, except Nikki? Is this some curse from God or the devil? Sure, I kicked a couple harmless vices, but I was mostly tormented.

Sep 26 Thu — Ok, Cupid

Why her, why a woman that I don't even like, I asked.

📞 "THE VOICE, THE ARTIST"

It considered itself an artist, painting perfect unions even against the will of its subjects. It made sense in an arranged marriage sort of way. The alleged God decided all fates and knew best. I wasn't any happier about it. Shouldn't love be exciting?

📞 "GET EXCITED"

Yes, it said that. My concerns and excuses were consistently and instantly addressed as I thought them. I heard the replies as I drifted back to sleep. This is how we conversed as I tossed and turned in the night. I protested repeatedly. It responded clearly:

📞 "IT'S A CHOICE BETWEEN HEAVEN AND HELL"

So that's it. Nobody else. That was the "free agency" that God gave: heaven or hell. I had argued against free will as a part of the logical atheistic erasing of all personal accountability to any would-be God. But now I had a choice.

Sep 29 Sun — Her

I had thoughts of resentment. I found this woman unattractive in all ways. I found her especially unappealing romantically. Well, then I had a dream about her at a different time in her life, completely nude yet carefully obscured in every way. I carried her about in the dream (through my elementary bathroom, into a car or truck) and felt the heat of her body against mine, even. What a production, what a sensation, for a dream.

Gross.

Oct 07 Mon — The Left-hand Path

I imagined ways to satisfy the obligation of marriage. For the last few days, I considered my only ex. She lived off the mainland, thousands of miles away in a city largely inaccessible to all but the wealthy and the homeless. Though dull and dutiful in thought, it was overwhelmingly preferable to the situation at hand. So, I joked about it with her, fell asleep, and received my answer:

🌙 Arrows

I saw a simple diagram in blue ink on lined paper. In the center of the second line, there was a circle. From it, two arrows pointed left and one arrow pointed right.

The message is simple: there's only one right way forward.

Sep 27 Fri — Numbers

Flashback.

Something happened a few weeks ago, on Friday, September 27. As I left work and drove through the neighborhood behind the store, I noticed a slip of paper under my windshield wiper. It was a phone number: Kayla. I couldn't call because of the insistent dreams, mainly. I didn't know any "Kayla," but after nearly three weeks without sight of a morning regular, I knew who she was.

I wasn't attracted to her, but I recalled her friendly visits. She usually dressed in, uh, sleepwear, more or less. Though it didn't excite me then, she was now unquestionably prized over the betrothed. Each night, I asked for permission or a sign to call her. Nothing.

I had my orders: DON'T FLIRT.

Oct 15 Tue — Kayla

After nearly three weeks, a friend persuaded me to call the number, so I did. She was surprised to hear from me and wondered why it took so long. She admitted she couldn't bear to return to the store after rejection. Kayla was a single mom, home-care worker, and fellow Supernatural fan.

I felt joy–guilt as I sat on the edge of my bed, texting. I remarked then at the feelings of happiness and hope in the shadow of fear. Maybe it was all a clever ploy to make me appreciate yet another woman I would've otherwise overlooked. Maybe this was right.

But she didn't care to go out to dinner. She only wanted to Netflix and chill. It was a pointless dead end.

Bedtime.

Oct 16 Wed — The Wedding

I was beyond frustrated with the ridiculousness of the entire situation—arranged marriage—yet I continued to make an effort. For this being God's plan, Nikki wasn't interested in even idle chatter. Meanwhile, Kayla would talk all night.

I rejoiced at every terse response, every opportunity to be "left on read." Was it enough? I got my answer that night. I experienced this message, probably audibly, either before or after a dream with three strong scenes:

📞 "THE LAST BEAUTIFUL DEED"

I heard the phrase spoken before, after, or during the dream: I sat on a couch with another man smoking from a large glass steamroller as a police officer (a Black man) glared down at me, his hands behind his back at rigid attention.

Next, there was a view of two extra-round people in hooded sweatshirts on a boat, on a lake at night, kissing under fireworks against a black sky. It's a marriage of navy blue and deep pink parkas, leaned into a full embrace, hoods intertwined.

Finally, on the back of a speedboat, a group of blonde and tanned people leered forward at the camera, gawking. As they did, an audience's canned laugh track from '70s sitcoms played. They were laughing at us less-than-conventionally-attractive people in our moment.

Explanation

The parkas are important. She and I always wore them at work. Hers were pink, red, or teal, and she regularly had her hood up. I wore navy blue most days (I had four of them). It was us, in our parkas, at a wedding on the lake—the last beautiful deed—the only road ahead.

If you smoke, you will lose everything.

The message is clear: I'd lost everything. But how?

Oct 17 Thu — This, That, the Other Thing

Kayla.

📞 "...YOU WON'T [Date Nikki], SO YOUR TRIAL IS OVER, RIGHT?"

As I drifted out of sleep, I heard a three-item list recited. Each item was prefixed with "YOU WON'T." Then, I was able to perceive the last two items but never the first. There was significant upward emphasis on the drawn-out R-I-I-I-GHT, like a tone of mockery. It was a depressing and negative start to the day: on trial again.

The oppression became so great, I didn't care share with my heartland and west coast confidants. It was the same story for weeks anyhow: date her or go to hell—different means to the same end.

Part III — Dead

I arrived anxious every morning, unable to focus. I'd practically turn in circles of indecision as I tried to work through the barrage of micro-tasks: change chili/cheese, check trash, clean sinks, fill cups, mop floors, print reports, stock bakery, stock cooler, stock grill, stock water, wash dishes, wipe counters. The anxiety would pass after a couple hours. I'm sure all the coffee didn't help, but 3:00 AM is early!

The threat of hell loomed before the impossible task: marry a woman whom I vehemently opposed, to put it kindly. I was angry at God for causing me such hatred for another human being. Atheism made me better than that. I had no problem with her until she was shoved in my face.

Yes, I'd tried. The situation was ridiculous, but hell is convincing. I felt worn out. She didn't want coffee, lunch, or dinner. She was never available for an outing, even if she truly had any interest. She spent weekends binge drinking and dope smoking with male friends, she often bragged. I was young once too. I asked her to meet at least three times, but she was always busy with a valid excuse and genuinely expressed, "another time."

It pleased me immensely, of course.

Oct 19 Sat — Entombed

My trial was over. Right.

📺 Dungeon Coffin

I saw a dark dungeon tomb. Four pillars formed an archway with a sleek black coffin on a central pedestal. The color scheme was a shadow-blue cast on dimly lit stone.

Dead again. Now it was about doing something I didn't want to do rather than not doing something I wanted to do. There's another miracle here, but I didn't realize it for most of two months, on December 11. To understand it, I need to explain my CD collection (again).

Abyssal Hate

Fringe music became part of my identity in high school, though few could relate to it. I collected CDs for almost 15 years, mostly imported heavy metal. Really heavy. I shopped at places like the now-defunct "Evil Music." The lyrics were unintelligible anti-religion, violence, or flat-out devil worship, yeah. I just liked the art, mood, and sound—no big deal.

Dec 11 Wed — Death Metal

Flash-forward.

The vision of the dungeon coffin was always reminiscent of a CD cover. (It also gives you an idea of what I listened to.) Almost two months later, I wanted to see it again. I recalled it to be an artist I knew but didn't like. The style was from the '90s. It took only a few guesses to dig it up.

Oh, it's the 1991 debut from Gorguts, Considered Dead. Comparatively, the dungeon I saw was low, wide, and deep. The album's title couldn't be more relevant. It's Biblical terminology for unbelievers: dead, separated from God, the source of true life. I didn't learn of the term from scripture, however. About the time of the dream, I saw a customer in a black t-shirt with bold white print: "DEAD NO MORE." He walked away and I read the back of it: a shirt for a Christian organization.

Oct 20 Sun — NEW CUSTOMER

Back to the present. This one was interesting. The message foretold the event. That morning, I heard:

📞 "NEW CUSTOMER"

Was it a message of hope, finally? A new hot date from out of town? No Nikki!?

That Day

A new customer visited the store. Not ideal, but she dressed provocatively and stared openly at me as she waited in line. When she came to the counter, I said, "Haven't seen you before." No comment. Fidgeting with the register, I added, "Sorry, just trying to keep you here as long as I can," with a smile. No reaction. She said nothing at any point. Weird.

That Night

In a hypnagogic state, I heard the sound of scratching and crumpling metal through the wall behind me, on the house's aluminum siding. When I awoke fully, it stopped. I was chilled. It was a threat of hell for flirtations with the foretold new customer, I decided.

Oct 21 Mon — Pool Party

I dreamed of a large in-ground swimming pool. Though I saw no landmarks outside the pool, it felt like the front yard of my childhood trailer park. I heard:

📞 "IT WILL BE HARDER NOW"

It was a baptism for flirting with the new customer. I'd cheated on my bride-to-be.

Oct 23 Wed — Ice Cream

It was my most desperate attempt yet to date Nikki as commanded. I decided to include everyone, no excuses; I asked her to meet at Dairy Queen after school, with the kids, for ice cream. No response. Finally, after I was in bed, she apologized and cited school discipline troubles and a parent–teacher conference.

Oct 25 Fri — Standing Room Only

It's a parable of heaven and hell.

🌙 Wedding Banquet

I dreamed of an elegant dining room. It had rich wood floors, black-coated metal tables with glass tops, and matched chairs. People in tuxedos filled every table. There was nowhere to sit.

Next, I saw myself and Seth entering a restaurant, but the entryway looked like a dirty public bathroom, with white sinks on the left and sea-green stalls on the right. It's unmistakably built from my elementary school bathroom. I woke to hear:

📞 "DOOMPIT"

Yes, like that: one word.

Seth, Who?

Well, he's the overtly feminine, gay, second-shift manager. He carries his keys on a lanyard inscribed with pentagrams and the phrase, "Don't Hex My Vibe." You know, witchcraft. The dreams began to use people I knew to indicate would-be occupants of hell.

Oct 27 Sun — THE BASEMENT

I'd dreamed of death, hell, and baptisms in a loop for weeks. Nikki. Each week grew darker. The threat of the reaper loomed. Most nights brought a single message, but some were conversational. Tonight's a big one.

I heard a different male voice. It had a sing-song quality and a shimmering chorus effect. He said:

📞 "IT'S NOT YOUR LIFE, IT'S NOT YOUR WORK"

It sounds like sola fide: salvation by faith alone. I had difficulty with Free Grace theology, the idea that salvation comes with simply hearing and trusting the Good News of Jesus Christ. After all, how could I not believe in God now, yet I was seeing the doom pit. Yet, it seemed like a message of hope amidst the barrage of baptisms.

Nope. A message of doom followed immediately amidst tosses and turns:

📞 "SHE HAS SEEN YOU ENTER THE BASEMENT—SORRY"

The basement? Like, hell? What was it this time?

📞 "THE BIBLE TOLD YOU THIS DAY WOULD COME"

Eternal damnation? I'm still alive!

🌙 Woodlands

I dreamed. I drove my car down a forest trail with sparse small trees beneath a high canopy, not a dense woodland. My dog, Peru, sat in the passenger seat. I opened the driver's door and she bolted. I tore after her, desperately running through the trees. She scaled a tree, literally running up it, then fell to the ground. I knelt by her and worried she was hurt. The dream ended.

My dog escaping is a distressing and periodic occurrence in my life, as she's capable of jumping her fence at the lure of deer and squirrels. I've spent many days chasing her around the neighborhood, driving up and down the road, and sprinting through the woods. The dreams would begin to denote hell this way, repeatedly.

Later, I learned that a friend with whom I shared the experiences "prayed for an angel" to give me guidance. The days lined up, and without any doubt, I heard the voice of an angel that night.

Part IV — New Life

I believed my damnation was complete. A chance with the woman of my nightmares was gone, my trial was over—"SORRY." The Bible said this day would come. I entered the basement.

What do I do now?

Oct 28 Mon — By The Way

Go to church, I guess.

The day had come. I stopped at a local church in the middle of nowhere, one I passed each day on my way home from work. There was a single car parked under a front awning for the drop-off. I entered through two sets of doors into a long dark hall outside of the sanctuary. Nobody. No lights on. I looked left, right, turned, and began to walk out.

"Hey, I'm here," a man said, walking out of an office.

"You're the, uh, the guy in charge?"

"Yep, I'm the pastor."

I told him everything; quitting my vices, marrying the woman, dreaming of hell. "Well, God is love; He doesn't do this to people." (That's what everyone says.) We shared a sinner's prayer of reaffirmation. He invited me to prayer night on Wednesday.

That night, I went to bed. Maybe it was evil. Maybe this is what it wanted, what I needed all along. I considered that very church months earlier, but a draconian creed on the website ran me off. I hadn't been to church since COVID, and even then, it was sporadic. I never liked church.

📞 "I DON'T WANT TO HEAR FROM YOU ANYMORE"

That doesn't sound good. Did I run my demon off? Did I go to the house of the Lord to speak with a man of the cloth, and now God(?) doesn't want to hear from me anymore?

Oct 30 Wed — The Prayer Group

I returned to the church two days later for a 6:00 PM prayer meeting. I didn't care why I was there, only that I was there. Aside from a few cars in the big parking lot, it looked empty. The main hall was barely lit, but the gigantic sanctuary (it seats 800) glowed softly from dimmed canister lights. It was a strange atmosphere. A handful of people were here. Being modern, the church had chairs, some of which were pulled into a loose circle near the stage. The pastor I met earlier was here along with a few others, so there were about seven of us.

The pastor would pray aloud, almost shouting, "calling" for things in the name of Jesus Christ and "coming against" others, like spirits of negativity. One man said he could see a black shape over my shoulder, an evil presence, he believed. He spoke a loud prayer against it and claimed it backed-off a bit.

These people thought evil was upon me. While it certainly was oppressive, I couldn't rationalize any sense for the devil to make me give up my vices and chase me into church. I went home to bed.

📞 "HAVE A GOOD LIFE"

I heard it that night. It wasn't received as hope or relief, however, but abandonment. You got what you wanted, now don't talk to me anymore. That's how it felt, like a threat. Whether I was guaranteed anything, I had no clue. The idea of it not wanting to hear from me, bidding farewell after all we'd been through, was upsetting enough.

Oct 31 Thu — Guess Who

Church didn't make me feel better. I wanted to believe it was evil, not God. I couldn't. Evil would've left me alone with my machinations. I knew man's prayers didn't matter to the will of God, and that's all those people were doing, praying against God's will.

I heard faint talking as usual, so I decided to try something. I'd already known about "testing the spirits," as the prayer group called it. Maybe it was their mention that solidified the idea. So, I awoke to the voice and thought: "SPIRIT, IDENTIFY YOURSELF!"

📞 "I'M JESUS CHRIST"

It came clearly in the voice of a small boy, probably 6–8 years of age. It had a tone of proud introduction, like a child practicing their first few handshakes in the mirror.

Nov 02 Sat — Knowing What's Coming

Speedway and healthy living took all my time, so I didn't play video games. I preferred to spend weekends on development, programming. It happened to be a big year for games, however. A nine-month pre-order dropped on October 4^th, 2024. I'd waited two years since the announcement, and it's the most anticipated game of my life.

Backstory

Games were a big part of growing up. I didn't play in my twenties; I partied with friends. I gamed on and off through my early thirties, but it wasn't my raison d'être. COVID was great for gaming, yeah. The point is, these aren't things that consumed my life or resources. People have hobbies, don't they. Besides, more than anything, I liked programming.

That night, as I plugged in my phone before bed, I decided to charge my keyboard as well: "I don't give a care, I'm playing games tomorrow. Going to hell anyway." It was a bold statement of defiance. I'd waited two years and now, under harsh oppression, I'd justified only a few hours of game play since I bought it weeks ago. You know, moderation.

🌙 Uncle's Arrival

I dreamed. I sat on a floor and played an exquisite Mega Man with "GBA2" graphics. It included power-arm ranged attacks, large sprites, and stunning 2-D scaling effects. My uncle came through a door to my right but then talked sternly and loudly to me from my left as I played:

"I HATE TO SEE YOU STILL SITTING THERE PLAYING [THEM] GAMES KNOWING WHAT'S COMING"

In the Midnight Hour

It was a direct confrontation to a simple thought, yet it implied I had a choice, a chance! I woke and rushed upstairs to unplug my beloved FPGA computer and my Windows gaming tower. I piled both onto a table in my office for eBay. My only hope, I decided, was to sacrifice everything I owned as a desperate show of faith for another chance to escape what's coming. The basement.

Nov 07 Thu — Yoga Flame

I dreamed of a provocative depiction of an attractive girl entering my workplace and walking into the aisles. I awoke and expressed, "Yeah, that's what I'm talking about." It was like the vision of the white sweater but black yoga pants.

📞 "IT STARTS WITH PROMISES"

Is this a trick? No Nikki!?

📞 "NO NIKKI"

Later, after a period of waking and sleeping with casual dreams between, I dreamed of the same girl coming to the checkout counter. I could see her face as she smiled, looking down. She's beautiful. I awoke, agreed readily, and asked when. I heard:

📞 "NEXT YEAR"

That's only two months away!

Part V — A New Beginning

Let's pause, step back, and consider the last three months. Remember the/your/my doomsday incident, when I got those three TVs immediately after being told to lose my amateur TV repairman life? Yeah. That's where we've been, for three months. That's all that whole thing was.

God's ploy.

My failed attempt to date her killed all hope; nothing else mattered. I liquidated all of my cherished computer pile from that late night. It was never about dating a married woman with three children; it was about losing my life of hobbies and trivial pursuits as instructed initially. It took three months to convince me, and God sent Nicole, a lovely mother, to do it. Then, when I did it, I got a new plan.

God's plan.

I sold everything. Sure, a hoard of tube TVs in 2024 makes me sound like a crazy pack-rat, but that hobby more than paid for itself. TVs aside, the rest wasn't even a carload. Long ago, I decided to own a few nice things, focus on what I enjoyed. These were practiced, refined, and lifelong ambitions. Gone. I met Facebook Marketplace buyers at Dollar General night after night. Emphasis: my hobbies were cheap, compact, something I didn't even have time for, yet they still had to go.

Something else happened as I sold everything throughout mid-February: I met a woman on Facebook. She loved an antique table I'd been unable to sell for years. Finally, a buyer! She was a busy home care worker two towns over. I became frustrated by her reassurance of interest without effort, so with no other prospects, I finally offered to donate and deliver the table. Her relatives lived nearby, so I dropped it off just a few miles down the road. She appreciated it so much that she wanted to talk on the phone.

Jan 16 Thu — Three Wise Men

I dreamed of abstinence from all computer activities from mid-November to mid-February. Among those, this vivid and unrelated depiction occurred one morning before work:

📞 "ONLY GOING TO SAY THIS ONCE"

I sat on a couch in a cramped bar, a gentleman's lounge. Ahead, there was a door below a neon sign (left) and a small bar with barstools (right). I had loose change and bills in my hands, some of which fell to the floor. A friend sat to my right. He said, "It's just been too long, you know," as he paid an obscured woman for a dance. I said, "Think of your wife and kids!" The camera shifted to the door where three men stood up and glared. One was a customer from my past, but he had an earring now, and the other who wears a denim jacket is totally unknown. I have no recollection of the third, only that there were three.

Next, I saw a closeup of a red-haired woman in yellow progressively opening her mouth inhumanly wide. At the moment, I thought she was singing, but I later realized later she was silently screaming the biggest scream ever. I recall a strong contrast in illumination, as if she stood before unseen light… or flames. The camera panned down to a crowd of hundreds on dark, packed dirt. The Pit. Their arms were up in the blackness.

Nap Time

I didn't feel convicted or threatened by the dream; I felt it was a warning to take the promised relationship with the woman of my dreams seriously. After work, as I lay on the couch, I wondered why I saw it. I fell asleep for a second to hear:

📞 "IF YOU WANT TO WORK AT SPEEDWAY"

What's that supposed to mean?

Feb 13 Thu — Anxiety

February 13^th is the earliest record of the final saga's commencement. It was so scattered and unrelated that its messages were only mentioned in summary rather than documented as they occurred, like most posts.

"It may be that I'm going to die soon," I told a friend. "I'm having bizarre ideas (dreams and visions) about my death at work in some sort of robbery or shooting." Yes, that's what a series of disjointed and fragmented visions and voices portrayed throughout February.

📞 "BLOW A HOLE THROUGH YOUR CHEST"

I considered the idea of a heart attack at work. Later, a shooting became more obvious. It seemed to build on that.

📞 "YOU WON'T BE THE FIRST"

So I wouldn't be alone when the robbery occurred. I only had help one or two days each week. That narrowed it down to Thursday, Sunday, or Monday.

📺 Handgun

A handgun rested on the speckled counter of the coffee creamer bar. Given the previous ideas, I dismissed it as a natural manifestation of inner fear and worry. I worked alone as a sales clerk, so a subconscious fear of a robbery was rational. Surely my brain invented it.

📺 Goat Pentagram

A goat pentagram burned into the blue counter at Speedway, the place I stood daily. It lasted one second and wasn't documented. I remember a bottom-left partial ring and point, but a loose note specifies a goat in the middle, even. Orange embers glowed in charred lines.

📺 March 2 3

Letters and numbers floated at an angle in 3-D space "March 2–3" or 2 / 3," I don't know,. It was never 23, but I still considered it.

I wanted to believe it was all just jumbled ideas from the day's events or something off TV. Now, with the deadline, I had the perfect recipe for paranoia.

Feb 23 Sun — Facial Contusions

Shelly forwarded a hospital release form. One of our most valuable cashiers had been hospitalized for domestic assault. We assumed it was her boyfriend, the man who drove her to work.

Everything came together. Her boyfriend attacked her and would take the next logical step: catch her at her workplace after the separation order. It wasn't a portent of random robbery but one of an unhinged reject executing a final rage against the woman he'd battered. His opportunity would be after her week of leave. She'd be back to work Sunday and Monday: March 2–3.

Before the day ended, I called Shelly to share my concern. I went as far as to introduce psychic phenomena, the third eye, and prophetic dreams. She said she knew all about the third eye, "Some people turn away from it but others love—or embrace—it." It was as if she'd said too much with "love" and corrected herself. She brought up a transfer back to the training store, but it would take time.

(So, yeah, there was a gun threat over the phone at the training store once, sure. Look, the cops said he was having a bad day, so they took him to a church for diapers and formula after the dispenser—that's "pump" to the layperson—held all the money on his debit card. Besides, he told them, he has free speech. Case closed.)

However, the notice didn't address the deadline set by the dreams, March 2–3, a week away.

Oct 29 Tue — Don't Mess With Texas

Let's backtrack a little, to October 29, just after I stopped at the church near home.

Perhaps for the spirit of the season, the church road sign read: "PROTECT YOURSELF FROM WITCHCRAFT. COME PRAY WITH US." It was bold and unusual. Around these days, I had a management meeting with Shelly. We were interrupted by challenging customers.

A mother–daughter pair from Texas wanted lotto by special request. Shelly handled the customers as I worked just feet away at a computer. It's a tale of three women who never back down. So they all went at it contentiously over a simple difference between state procedures. Their personalities didn't allow for a peaceful exchange. Part of the older Texan's angry performance involved rubbing her fought-for instant tickets on a pocket Bible. She finally left, reiterating her utter discontentment. The store was empty, quiet. From the other room, I heard Shelly mutter: "You and your Bible, lady. Let me tell you, I'm a witch, and I'm a witchy witch…"

It was weird. Fine, you're a witch, but it was said in such a small area that it seemed like an invitation for discussion. I ignored it. It was also about this time that Shelly returned from a vacation out west and left a gift for Seth on the office desk: "Satanic Tea" from the Satanic Temple. No big deal.

Feb 24 Mon — The Song of Death

Tonight, it all came together.

🌙 THE SONG OF DEATH

I dreamed of work with the abused coworker, a lovely Hispanic woman from Texas. Our store doesn't have a kitchen, but in the dream, we worked at an extensive stainless counter with inset serving pans and other hot trays, like a fast food setup. The dream ended with a musical overlay: a traditional Mexican anthem complete with horns. The coworker sang a single word drawn out for several seconds (a melisma):

D E A T H

The composition was truly stunning. I have no affinity for or knowledge of Mexican / Spanish music outside of what brief bits play in the local cafés and taquerias.

Afternoon Aftermath

It was the end of my work week, Monday. I had Tuesday and Wednesday off. The dream certified an impending shooting at work. I had to take action today, so I called the hiring manager and expressed concerns to ease anxiety.

No Escape

Backstory. I'd begun ruminating near February 4. The gas station has no fire exit. A firefighter turned pest inspector brought it to my attention. I knew that, yes, and nor did the training store have a fire exit, not even with its kitchen. They bricked it over. Here, it didn't bother me because I could easily climb out a window, and there were many. But then I started to think along the lines of an active shooter scenario. There was no cover that led to an escape route.

The Notice

So I called the hiring manager and expressed my concerns of active shooters and fire exits. "I'm bringing a crowbar to open the fire escape," I said. It's not that it didn't have a rear exit, it did, but they sealed it and put a shelf in front of it. No escape. She laughed. "NO." The proposed solution was to schedule her without overlap, as I would've typically had her help for a few hours once or twice a week. Of course, we'd see each other in passing.

Shelly worried that I'd quit unexpectedly and asked if I could stay long enough to train a replacement manager. The manager agreed to adjust the coworker's schedule such that we wouldn't work together. Still, we would see each other in passing since she was the second-shift employee. (We work alone almost always, remember.)

The call went well enough. I was surprised at her invitation to resign. I was the only store leader. Then something weird was said: "Well, you're going to be here Saturday, right?" I never miss a day; why wouldn't I? It was Monday, so I had the next two days off to dread and ponder the deadline, next Sunday and Monday.

Feb 26 Wed — Terrible Lie

I wondered about the forward woman from Facebook. We'd talked and texted for over a week, sometimes spending a couple hours on a call. Though not abnormal, it was a bit odd, given the situation. She was someone who also had strong religious convictions built upon a few unexplainable experiences. She seemed to accept my testimony at face value. Was she God's plan, and what about the promised dark-haired woman of my dreams?

Vivid dreams ramped way up.

🌙 Terrible Lie

I saw an unknown bar with a wide stage. A dozen black-haired women dressed in leather mini skirts, boots, fishnets, black jackets, etc. all sang in unison: "TERRIBLE LIE." It's the Nine Inch Nails song from last summer. The bar had concert lighting, like a scene from a 1980s film. It was unmistakably the dark-haired woman of my dreams, replicated across the stage. The production was incredible. 4:38 AM.

The dream came as I wondered about the new woman in my life. I felt reservations about her uninhibited desire to meet. Was it a test? Am I to wait for the dark-haired woman of my dreams? The answer: the dark-haired woman is a terrible lie, but hopes of her got me this far.

🌙 Test Your ESP

I sat on a rug, maybe the one from kindergarten, in a classroom with book bins and clutter, typical of the early grades. I saw a perfect rendition of a purple booklet titled simply: ESP. These little books were sold in grocery stores' impulse sections in the 1990s, but I found it at a thrift store. I've owned it for over thirty years. I heard or understood in the dream:

📞 "FIRST YOU GET JESUS, THEN YOU GET ON THE DOOMED SHIP"

I realized: you get Jesus—get saved—and then you die. That's the last chance, that's what this was all about. It was a lot to consider. Fortunately, I had the day off.

Feb 27 Thu — Decision Day

That's what Walmart called their paid day off to decide if you really want to work here, mister, after grave offenses up to but not including the utterly wicked consumption of a fun-size candy bar from a bag of damages.

Out of Work, 2:00 PM

Each subordinate failed me today; a seasoned third-shifter filled half-and-half with French vanilla, a ten-year cashier simply refused to count cigarettes three times, and the new guy—a former employee who called himself the Cooler King—trashed the beverage cooler worse than any novice.

The district manager who hired me visited to address my resignation. I told him everything flatly for over an hour. (I left out the Nikki thing.) He asked, "Have you talked to anyone?"

I went home. Tonight's a big one—a two-parter.

Dreams Before Midnight, 11:30 PM

The ESP book from yesterday morning certified and symbolized tonight's message as prophecy:

🌙 The Doomed Ship

I saw a foggy sea at night. A grand cruise ship styled like the Guggenheim with a rounded hull and five to seven decks sailed toward me. Each deck glowed with gold lighting in contrast with the white ship and dark sea. There was a vintage ship's wheel on one of the middle decks. Behind the wheel, a wooden cross levitated with a man in a white suit upon it, one leg hung to the side as if the crucifixion pierced the side of one foot and the top of the other. (The ship sailed away from me in a forgotten second scene, but there was no new detail.)

📞 "YOU NEED TO MAKE A DECISION"

I heard it after the dream—a decision to sail with Jesus? My ship had come in and it wasn't the ship of doom after all. The Facebook woman was the one I'd waited for. I "hearted" one of her messages in the middle of the night after the dream, a commitment. She was up, and we chatted briefly before I fell back asleep.

Feb 28 Fri — Day of the Pentagram

As if the night couldn't get any crazier.

📺 Fresh Maker

I awoke to a brief and ominous vision: my Mentos gum container, a cylindrical plastic drum, except there was a pentagram drawn perfectly on its rounded top. I heard:

📞 "SATURDAY"

Saturday, tomorrow, the first of March—the day of the pentagram—the day Shelly just so happened to ask if I would be there even though I'd never missed a day or taken time off. Don't I always come to work rain, shine, or two hours early with zero notice? Why the preoccupation with Saturday when I'm worried about Sunday and Monday, March 2–3, the return of the domestic victim.

The dreams fit together a new way: Jesus was here to collect. I needed to make a decision: whether I'd board the doomed ship on Saturday, whether I wanted to work at Speedway.

I woke up floored, paced in panic, and chugged coffee. As I reached the stairwell on one of my laps through the house, it came over me. Panic melted tangibly into mania: I'd quit my job for God. Today was my last day—my last chance.

The Last Day, 6:00–2:00 PM

I jittered on pins and needles until two o'clock. Nothing happened. The day was busy, normal, but my mind hadn't changed, nor had I even considered it. I looked out the window and saw the new guy coming up the sidewalk. I was already clocked out, ready to bolt. For the sake of formality, I waited inside the building. I greeted him farewell and blazed out of the store as if it were on fire, a burning building with only one escape route. I jumped in my car and dialed the district manager, the man from yesterday. I apologized and informed him of my resignation. He asked, "John… are you okay?"

I said, "Yep, I'm fine—just going home. We're making pizza for dinner."

I left for my Saturday date with the Facebook woman. We dined at a nice restaurant, browsed Salvation Army, and spent the evening together.

It's a happy ending, for now.

Jun 30 Mon — A Final Note

Four months later.

God created a drama of impending death and damnation to spur me to leave Speedway. He used the idea of witchcraft to end the job the same way he used Nikki to remove the hobby gear. It had been foretold by the dream of the screaming woman in the pit a month earlier: if you want to work at Speedway. I had to quit, and God used the environmental curiosities, clues of witchcraft, to make it happen. I never lived in any dire or remote fear of sorcery and witches.

That's how I rationalized it in the following months. Kayfabe. Another Nikki show. Eventually, I casually but intentionally wondered as I went to sleep: Was anyone really casting spells on me at Speedway? Just thinking it felt ridiculous.

📞 "HE WAS TRYING"

Addendum

I chopped months from the complete timeline to keep the document succinct. God says this is part of our testimony. I had a high-speed rollover in my early twenties, and God wanted me to know a miracle happened that night. More than that, He tied it in prophetically.

May 18 Sun — The Way Back Machine

Like I said, the big stuff comes on Sundays.

📞 FIFTEEN-AND-A-HALF YEARS

I counted back the years. Well, yeah, something did happen about that time…

Jan 31 Fri — Lest You Dash Your Foot

Flash way back, to 2009, 16 years ago.

I met friends at a bar after work before plans to attend a small birthday party. I stood, finished my drink, and left for home in my new car. I got out of town and hit the back roads. Everything was fine until I turned onto the home stretch. White Zombie blared out open windows. I accelerated past the speed limit in black-ice conditions.

The Jeep Grand Cherokee LTD was my first all-wheel-drive vehicle. Snow and ice traction was wildly different from the front-wheel-drive car it replaced (for a month). It got to me.

I learned then that 84 mph was the vehicle's top speed. It was the first time I drove a car new enough to have a governor. It was also then that I learned the digital volume knob will momentarily display "37" on the LCD readout, but then snap back to "35," the maximum. It's peculiar, I thought, as I splashed through a small snowdrift from someone who plowed their driveway across the road.

The car fishtailed and broke loose into a counterclockwise slide down the center of the road. I remember the gravitational force pulling at my side, a feeling unique to moving sideways at eighty. The rear tires caught the ditch and the Jeep rolled onto its roof. The open windows blasted frozen snow into my face as the roof of the car dredged the ditch.

It's difficult for me to understand the thinking that night. I was indeed late for the second group. I'd already kept them waiting at the bar. It was a friend's birthday gathering, and they were kind enough not to light the present without me, since they'd parked in my driveway. That's how we rolled.

Back to the Present

My mind wandered in bed. I thought of a small box of childhood toys. I imagined two M.U.S.C.L.E. figures, a fad toy from Japan that saw a limited U.S. release. I dreamed briefly. I talked to my cousin as we held the toys. (He always preferred the caped strongman.) I said, "Yours doesn't do this."

Yours doesn't park a Jeep upside down in a ditch at eighty-four miles per hour.

The event occurred in 2009. Only shortly after the dream on June 3^rd, I was asked to give a short speech on a testimony at my church's monthly speech club on July 1^st. Now, 16.5 years ago would be Jan 1, but 16 years and 5 months is exactly February 1^st of 2009. Is that a stretch? (The next time I heard "fifteen," it was spoken as "eight-four-three" perhaps due to possible errors in transmission.)

Commentary / Disclaimer

Let's talk frankly.

It's True

No one has a greater stake in disbelief than I did. I quit a nice job close to home with opportunities for advancement. I sold irreplaceable equipment and gave up my free time hobbies. It's been a year, and though I enjoy writing and developing this site, I haven't played a single game or worked on a personal project. Imagine your favorite hobbies ripped away completely for a year, at least.

No, I did not justify embellishments or inaccuracies in any way about my experiences for the case of entertainment, evangelism, "soul saving," or otherwise "for your own good."

I read through / listened to the complete NIV Bible in 2025, yet nearly all verses were added in revision; I didn't engineer this document to reflect verses or parables.

It's Alive

It's a living document. I append, trim, and update to make a compelling and distributable reading, one readers want to finish. If I find overlooked data in my notes, I add it where appropriate. If new revelation highlights a previously unimportant, unmentioned events, I add it.

It's Incomplete

There's no way to to record every phenomenon nor include all recorded phenomena. Some consecutive dates are combined instead of having three days for one core message, for example. As memory settles, interpretation sharpens. It's not uncommon for a post to be understood six months later with/out additional content. Patterns emerge over time.

Thoughts on Christians

When those espousing the highest moral standard for love and peace aren't Christians, how does it make Christianity look? Add the Problem of Hell, politics, and the notion that religiosity certifies no virtue beyond itself, and you get a recipe for atheism or even anti-religion.

Thoughts on Atheists

The only problem with atheists is that they're wrong.

I hold atheists in high regard. True adherents are often educated critical thinkers who stand peacefully against dogmatic theologies promoting inequality, intolerance, and persecution—it feels righteous. I pray they too receive a last chance; I hope theirs is a matter of can't, not won't, though mine was admittedly the latter. If I didn't have the supernatural experiences of The Last Chance, I'd still be an atheist—a denialist—rooted in my right to life, liberty, and personal pursuits as adequately righteous.

I'm a good person—why would I go to hell?

The Bible doesn't say that "good" people go to heaven; it says the opposite:

A leap of faith isn't required; one step will do. God responds to belief as small as a mustard seed (Matthew 17:20). The first step is to trust Jesus Christ as Savior today.

Jul 17 Thu — It Is Finished

I think the testimony is finished?

📞 "TAKE IT TO THE WIND"