"Save me, O God; for the waters are come in unto my soul. I sink in deep mire, where there is no standing: I am come into deep waters, where the floods overflow me.” (Psalms 69:1-2 KJV)

By the time Halloween rolled around I was ready for an end. I expected something significant to happen, something or someone to be revealed. What was the point of my blog if River wasn’t even dead? It’s like everyone else knew what was going on but me. They were giving me clues and hints but never actually providing any kind of truth. I kept hanging on thinking eventually someone somewhere would come clean. Eventually, River would show up. It was like my blog had come to life and sucked me in. Suddenly I was River Phoenix. My life imitated my art just as River’s had, but when I posted something on my blog about my ongoing misery, this is the type of reply I’d receive:

Tantra (10/28/15 at 6:13pm)

That sounds terrifying. I’m so sorry to hear that. You’re a rational person by nature. I know that. If you feel you’re going through something mentally amplified, maybe look into what might be causing a slight imbalance of chemistry not only in the first brain, but in the second, in the gut.

People can go through phases influenced by shifts in neurotransmitters. High dopamine levels can be associated with seeing patterns beyond what are there. There can be a variety of causes for that, including Candida overgrowth, which can cause a sense of instability and anxiety.

For example, if serotonin is low, dopamine can go high. You probably know this, but a good way to bring up serotonin is by avoiding simple carbs and replenishing the gut with probiotics through raw fermented foods and killing off the harmful bacteria with herbs such as oil of oregano.

It’s the language and tone that got under my skin, “You’re a rational person by nature. I know that.” Really? How would they know that? Again, in the last paragraph, “You probably know this,” Do I? What in the world was Candida overgrowth anyway? I reckoned maybe my second brain could figure that one out, right after I replenished it with fermented foods. Tantra, by the way, is an Eastern religious practice centered around eroticism and sex which are used in rituals to transform the deity within, aka, sex magick. The word, “Tantra,” literally means “loom, weave, or sewn-together.” According to Anthony Tribe, a scholar of Buddhist Tantra, the practice has the following defining features: centrality of ritual (especially the worship of deities); centrality of mantras; visualization of and identification with a deity; need for initiation, esotericism and secrecy; and importance of a teacher or guru. It’s also interesting to note that the comment was left at 6:13pm, which is actually my birthdate, June 13. Another insignificant coincidence? I knew I was dealing with occultists, and my gut told me that these people meant business, I just didn’t know (or want to believe) how powerful their witchcrafts could be.

Journal Entry (10/29/15)

Either I’m doing it, or it’s God, or Satan, but I tell you it’s supernatural and it’s gone dark! It’s like hurricanes are popping up in my name. It’s a manipulation of reality. My center was God, my family, and my job – I felt all three slipping away. Called in sick twice. Left work for about an hour and a half without telling anyone, without clocking out. Arrived later only to take an emergency leave to keep my dead celebrity, cyber-boyfriend from leaving. There’s more, much more, but in order to save a little bit of face I’ll keep some things to myself. Whether real or imagined, it controlled me. Whether the wizards behind the curtain exist or not, I was under their trance. Trolls never admit to being trolls any more than the devil speaks his true purpose. You don’t need monarch programming to experience this phenomenon. I promise, it can happen to anyone. But it doesn’t stop there… Black magic? Predictive programming? I say they’re one in the same. I rebuke them both.

Our water was shut off Halloween morning, something about the bill getting lost in the mail, and the toilets at work went into overtime. After using the third stall, I stood transfixed as the toilet continuously flushed itself. Our internet went down, computers went haywire, even the IT guy commented while attempting to fix my computer, “what is going on today?” I arrived home that evening to find a friend request on Facebook from someone named, Daisy Chain, who provided me with never-before-seen pictures of River in his last unfinished movie. Once again, I was pulled in. A daisy chain, I researched weeks later, is a wiring scheme in electronic engineering in which multiple devices are wired together in sequence or a ring – a daisy chain, weaved-together like a loom. In the Bible, Goliath carries a spear whose staff is “like a weaver’s beam.” A weaver’s beam, or warp beam, is a roll located at the back of a loom on which the ends of the thread are wound in preparation for weaving. So, like a thinly spun web visible only when the light hits it just right, I blindly stumbled into the giant’s lair.

We spent Halloween night at a local pub. My roommate dressed up as one of Roy Lichtenstein’s pop art cartoon girls. I dressed up as River from the film, My Own Private Idaho. I expected something to happen. Surely, someone would reveal themselves to me, maybe even his best friend in disguise again. We were approached by numerous strange men that night, but one guy, no, two guys in particular peaked my interest. The first guy that approached our table asked me to dance. He wasn’t wearing a costume and seemed normal enough, but after standing in the middle of the room for a few awkward minutes, he asked me to go outside with him because there was something he wanted me to see. Once outside, we saw a guy in a blue Mustang leaning out of the passenger side, puking. His long hair covered his face as he sat hunched over in the seat with a couple of guys surrounding him. “I hope he’s okay,” I commented. “Those are my friends,” my dance partner said. “He can’t handle his drink so we’re taking him home to his mommy.” “Uh, okay,” I replied. “Is this what you wanted me to see?” He tells me “no,” that he just wanted to come outside so we could talk. He then asked what my astrological sign was. “Oh, Gemini, the twins,” he smiled. Although I’m sure he told me, I don’t remember his. “I have to help get him home to his mommy,” he said again, “but I’d like to get your number before I leave.” I eyed him suspiciously wondering if he was one of them. The scene was all too familiar to me – the blue car, the sick passenger, his friends gathered around him, Halloween night – they were trying to show me something. “I came all the way over here just to get your number,” he said. “I was across the street and saw you.” I finally obliged, gave him my number, and went back inside.

Another guy approached me not long after I returned to our table. Dressed up like Alice Cooper or some sort of gothic vampire-type character, he introduced himself as Clement, sat down next to me and started up a conversation, most of which I don’t remember. He seemed familiar though. His mannerisms, the way he moved, and even some of the things he said reminded me of River’s best friend, you know, the one who paid me a visit. Although the details are a bit foggy, I do remember him saying something about algorithms. “It’s all numbers,” he said at one point. We ended the night singing along to Temple of the Dog’s, Say Hello to Heaven, which he had personally requested to the DJ. I left the bar drunk, and, once again, wondering if I had just met a famous insider. How did he know I’d be at that bar? I concluded that I was, indeed, being watched.  

In the days following, I texted back and forth with the first guy I met. He sent me pictures of his car, the blue Mustang, as well as pictures of himself, most of which always looked different. Even now, I don’t have a clear image of what the guy actually looked like. In one picture he had a long beard, in another picture he was clean shaven, he appeared scrawny in one and well-built in another. He sent me pictures of himself at work as a Machinist giving the thumbs up and winking. At one point he even called me on the phone and said he was on his way over. “But you don’t know where I live,” I said. “I know, that’s why I’m calling.” I didn’t know what to say but something told me not to let this guy come over to my house. At first, I truly did believe that he was somehow connected to River, like he was some sort of messenger or something, but I had grown weary of mind-games, messengers and clues. The call suddenly dropped and then he called back about five minutes later. “I’m in a dead zone,” he said, “or I was. Yeah, I’ve just been kicking rocks over at the neighbor’s house, decided to give you a call.” An image of my neighbor’s driveway (not the green house) flashed through my mind. The new neighbors at the end of our street, the one’s with the Oregon license plates, the older white couple who seemed oddly out of place, were having their driveway redone and large concrete rocks covered their yard. I already had my suspicions that, they too, were involved, now it was all but confirmed. After all, wasn’t River born in Oregon?      

After telling him that it wasn’t really a good time to come over, he invited me to a Motorcycle rally in Galveston that weekend. I agreed to go but cancelled before the weekend arrived. I thought maybe I’d chosen the wrong guy. Maybe the guy dressed up like the gothic vampire, the one who reminded me of River’s friend, was the right choice after all. I ended it with the first guy by sending him a text message that said something like, “I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else,” and then I called Clement. He sounded surprised to hear from me and we talked for about ten minutes or so, but I don’t remember much about that conversation either. I was fishing. It was another case of who are you and who sent you, but Clement didn’t hold the answers either. He told me about his roommate who sat in a dark room all day smoking cigarettes and I made another loose connection pertaining to my own roommate (as well as myself) who would sit in the dimly lit garage chain-smoking. In the end, it was another lead that led nowhere, and I cut ties with both men.   

The comments on my blog were becoming less frequent but posts from my Facebook “friends” still seemed to mimic my every move. Halloween had come and gone, and nothing changed. I still felt like I was being watched. I still felt controlled by some unseen force. I still had yet to solve River’s murder, and I still couldn’t explain what was happening to me. I began seeing that blue Mustang everywhere I went as well as the big brown bubba truck with the Jesus bumper sticker. In fact, I even saw it driving down the street that led to “River’s house.” The new neighbors with the Oregon plates also appeared more frequently on my radar. As I was leaving the neighborhood one day (on my way to the bar no less) I saw a young man digging a shallow trench in their gutter with a stream of water flowing through it. I stared at the young man, and he at me, before driving off to have a couple of beers by myself. It was an endless search. Where was River? What was happening to me? Where does it all lead?

I sat outside at the bar watching the boats float by on the lake, their navigational lights hypnotizing as the sun disappeared into the horizon. A large bird appeared just within my eyeshot and seemed to linger in place as if watching me as intently as I watched him. A love song on the radio about green eyes brought me to near tears as I nursed my beer and avoided eye contact with the growing crowd. It felt like the entire place was staring at me. Everyone that walked by glanced in my direction until the unwanted attention became too much. I drove home that evening with blurred vision as the normally clear radio stations tuned in and out between the buzz and static of white noise. When I was able to hear a song, the lyrics always seemed to be directed entirely at me as if some all-powerful force were commanding it so, a universal DJ who always knew exactly what to play.   

Journal Entry (11/8/15)

It feels like I’m in a movie. In fact, I’m almost certain I’ve been cast in a documentary without my prior approval, without a clear focus of what it is I’m supposed to say or do, and without proof of any cameras, directors or cast members, but I know they’re there.

As the days dragged by, my paranoia and emotional instability intensified. Helicopters continuously buzzed over my house as I prayed for River like he was holed up in that green house and I’d somehow, again, blown his cover. I was in tears praying for his safety, and without even turning a page, opened up my Bible to Psalms. I looked down and read the exact verse I needed to hear:

“Deliver me from mine enemies, O my God: defend me from them that rise up against me. Deliver me from the workers of iniquity, and save me from bloody men.” (Psalms 59:1-2 KJV)

It later dawned on me that the verse was probably meant for me, not River. In fact, my love for River soon turned to resentment. I no longer cared where he was or what he had to say, I just wanted my life back. Although I didn’t have a clear understanding of who my enemies even were, I knew they were out there, and as far as I was concerned, River was one of them.

Journal Entry (11/11/15)

I’m sorry I haven’t lived my life underground as a paranoid schitzoid who talks in code and expects everyone to understand what exactly it is he’s communicating. I can’t handle this level of paranoia. Now that I know he’s alive and I’ve been in communication with him, I’m not sure I’m a fan. To be quite blunt, I find him to be a bit of a manipulative jerk. He’s invaded my privacy, taken over my life, caused a strain between me and my family, and made a liar out of me. It’s the most outlandish, far-fetched, insane thing that’s probably ever happened to anyone on the entire face of this planet and I’m supposed to just deal with it.

Why me: They don’t need me to explain anything or expose anything. I’m a lab rat, a social experiment. I’m Jim Carrey in The Truman Show. If it’s some kids or some cruel prank, fishing, I think is the term, they’d have to be some rich bastards, and no one in my neighborhood is rich, we’re not even lower-middle class. For those South Park fans, “We’re poor Kenny!” If it’s some psycho, I think he would have made his move by now. Identity theft? Same thing. I have nothing to steal. To prove a point, send out a message, teach them about right and wrong? What’s the frequency, River? Can’t eat, can’t sleep, stomach is in knots, drinking more, missing work, alienating friends and family, highly paranoid, lying, it’s reached the point where I feel like everyone is involved, everyone’s been paid off (family, strangers, co-workers, the radio stations). They’re watching me. They’re everywhere. They’re like Santa Claus, they know if I’ve been naughty or nice. Behave. Big brother. The Illuminati. The powers that be. They’re watching my every move, observing, judging, manipulating. Mind control. Watch what you say. Behave. Obey. Enough! I’m outta here.

Journal Entry (11/14/15)

I don’t put it lightly when I say I’ve been under complete and total mind control, and I’m not talking propaganda through advertising and social media, those things fueled the fire. I’m talking about psychic driving. Someone was/is in my head, to the point where I thought my house was bugged.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that somebody was in my head. I was outside on the porch one night deep in thought about my current situation when the tone of my voicemail startled me. I looked down and wondered why it never rang. “Hmm, hmm, your phone didn’t ring,” the recorded message said. Cold chills ran down my spine, but I figured there had to be a logical explanation. They were mocking me, yes, they had taken over my phone, maybe, but there was no way they, he, or it could read my very thoughts. It was a setup. Of course I would wonder why my phone didn’t ring.

I was tired, physically and emotionally. I didn’t think I could handle much more. My body was exhausted, and although it was mid-November, I was constantly sweating and in need of water. As far as River’s story went, I still couldn’t figure out what the water thing even meant. I didn’t care anymore. It was no longer about him. It was about me. While outside at work one day I noticed a geeky looking guy, kind of overweight, reading a paperback book with a huge cup of water in his hand, at least, I assumed it was water. It was like one of those Big Gulps except ten times bigger. The guy smirked as he got up from the bench and walked away without even looking up from his book. He’s one of them, I thought. Another messenger with another clue.

I no longer cared about solving River’s death, but I couldn’t put his story to bed. The hypnotic water, the Illuminati, the theory of a ritual sacrifice, dog god, sex-kitten programming, the dead dog with the pink collar in my yard, the Halloween dream – all the pieces were falling into place. I was River Phoenix, and I was destined to suffer the exact same fate. They had set a trap for me. They dug a pit and waited for my inevitable fall. It was all beginning to make horrible sense.  

Journal Entry (11/18/15)

I don’t believe in magic. I believe in the power of prayer, the power of belief, faith, the power of love, the righteous path. Who’s driving your dreams? Like moths to the light we look high and low for the answers we seek. Some seek council from the clergy, others pay some self-proclaimed psychic who tells you what you want to hear. Some look for answers in tarot cards…within yourself you find the answers, because within yourself you find God, the Holy Spirit, the Living Water.

A few days before Thanksgiving on November 20, 2015, the story finally reached its climax. I sat at my desk at work with my earbuds in trying to ignore the burning sensation spreading across my forehead. I was sweaty and dehydrated, my hands were cracked and pealing in places, my muscles twitched here and there, but it was the hot frothy feeling in my forehead that caused me real concern. It was a sensation I’d never experienced before but it felt as if someone was holding a magnifying glass right over my forehead, like I was an ant about to be set on fire by the sun. With the music on my iPod set to random, I skipped over numerous songs about death and dying – Pearl Jam’s Tremor Christ, REM’s Everybody Hurts, The Cure’s Same Deep Water as You, Depeche Mode’s Enjoy the Silence – Enough! I ripped out my earbuds and went outside for a smoke. Although close to tears, the rage mounted within me. My head throbbed and I couldn’t think straight. The burning sensation intensified as did the muscle spasms. A group of kids appeared out of nowhere down the street and began singing “ring around the rosy, pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down!” They giggled and circled the sign post and then quickly disappeared around the corner. An ambulance raced by with its lights on. A man with a tall cowboy hat drove by and spit out of his car window. Everywhere I looked cars were backing up, and then it hit me – The Law of Reversal. You know, Satan is god, the inverted cross, dark is light. Aleister Crowley taught that those who want fame, power, spell-casting abilities, and demons at their beck and call should practice this law. In order to recognize the godhead within, as well as to know the past, present, and future, he encouraged his students to practice talking, walking, thinking, and playing phonograph records backward. For example, Oprah’s production company “Harpo” is “Oprah” spelled backward. That’s it!

The end, or shall I say, the beginning was in sight. I believed that if certain events in my life that had occurred over the past four months were repeated in a backward motion, the curse would be broken. I got back to my desk and listened to that first voicemail message, the one with the white noise, backwards, no wait, forward and then backwards, whatever. It’s getting better, I thought, my head is beginning to clear a little. I read over my blog again, listened to some of the same music, talked to the same people, and when I went back outside on my last break, I saw the blue Lincoln town car drive by. They’re helping me, I thought, everything’s going to be okay. I walked across the street to the morgue (that’s the building where we store old newspapers) and sat down on a metal table next to the wooden bench. Instantly, that awful feeling of blind dizziness washed over me. I broke out into a sweat, my body trembled, and my forehead sizzled from the inside out. Obscenities flew out of my mouth as I quickly moved over to the wooden bench. It’s all over, I panicked, I need a do-over!

After posting a Bible verse on my blog and asking for prayers, I raced home in a fit of rage. How I successfully maneuvered the ten-minute drive to my house, God knows. I turned the corner onto my street where a large bonfire lit up the neighborhood. The burning of my brain reached epic proportions. Pins and needles burrowed into my forehead and minor tremors coursed through my limbs, but it came in waves. The cresting white-tips, the strong undercurrent, the thick salty foam, and then the ocean goes calm again. My skin dried out like a raisin and I felt the energy being sucked from my body – here comes another one. Rage took hold of me again as I stumbled out of my car and marched directly into the backyard. On shaky knees, I stood on a chair, mouthed some obscenities, and flipped off the neighbor in the green house. No response. No red light, no yellow light, no swaying curtains – nothing but darkness. Calm down, I told myself. Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm. I ran inside and checked my blog for comments. Nothing. I steadied my breath and loaded a bowl of weed – two tokes was all it took. The cresting whitetips flooded my brain again with blinding pins and needles. Sweat poured from my skin and saturated my clothes. I don’t believe in black magic! I don’t believe in curses! I grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen and retreated to the garage to chain-smoke. A loud voice in my head told me to get on my knees and pray, which I did. I don’t remember what I prayed for, help, I imagine, but the cresting waves subsided once again. When I got back to my room, I chugged some water, cracked open my Bible and began reading, but the rage mounted. The boiling froth fermented my brain as I threw down my Bible, cursed God, and crawled across the floor to retrieve my journal. My skin grew tight around my bones as if I was turning into a stone sculpture, and my bodily functions lost all control. A loud ringing blared through my ears as I struggled to remain conscious. I began writing down everything that had happened over the past four months backwards. It didn’t work. The wave subsided again as I leaned against my bed and waited for the next one. I felt dead inside. Soulless. No hope. No tears. No passion. No emotions. I was alive but dead. A still small voice told me to call my aunt, so I did.

Blog Post (11/23/15)

I knew I was dying. I could feel life slipping away as if I’d just ingested a powerful cocktail of drugs that my body simply couldn’t handle. My sight clouded over, and my ears burned with such intensity I thought my head might burst into flames. Dear God, another bizarre case of spontaneous combustion! The tremors brought me to my knees as I prayed for mercy upon my soul, but God simply wasn’t available, that boat had sailed when I cursed Him just minutes before. Heavy waves of white foam flooded my brain, a thick, acidic substance that coated my frontal lobe and spread down to my spinal cord. I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t see straight. I couldn’t breathe. My heart pounded. My body trembled. My skin dried out as if a vampire had just sucked all the fluid from my veins. My face became so tight and leathery I was positive I was somehow transforming into a reptile. Death was surely only a few seconds away as I cried out in agony and fought off eternal darkness. I was cursed! It had to be a curse from some high-ranking witch, the one responsible for making my life complete hell for the past three months. Crowleyan black magic. The curse of the dead dog with the pink collar I’d found in my yard had come to a head. Death by dehydration, just like that poor dog! On the verge of collapsing face first on my bedroom floor, I somehow found my cell phone and dialed straight to my aunt.

Her chipper voice did little to calm my frantic state of being. I was dying. I could feel the energy leaving my body as the sound of a speeding train laid in on the horn non-stop. The freedom train. My freedom train.  In a broken and barely audible voice I asked my aunt to pray for me. I don’t remember exactly what I said, only that something was happening to me and I needed deliverance. I remained on my knees and bawled like a child while she prayed over me through the speaker phone. Seizures threatened to overtake my body and that heavy brain froth worsened with each sip of water I took. The bigger the gulp, the more intense the sensation became until my brain fizzled out and death would surely prevail. Water was the poison that my body desperately craved. My aunt continued praying and although I cried out to God to save me, to heal me, I couldn’t feel his presence. It was as if that part of me was somehow blocked. I felt dead inside, a rebellious child for which God no longer had a use. The angels wouldn’t save me, Christ didn’t know me or want me, and my soul belonged to someone else, some stranger I didn’t know, couldn’t see and had never met but was the person responsible for my dire situation. On shaky knees, I picked myself up off the floor and used the wall to guide me into the kitchen where I grabbed a Coke out of the fridge. My aunt continued praying but I was the walking dead void of hope and cursed by the devil himself.

The waves of panic and impeding fear of death subsided a bit as I sat down on the bathroom floor and attempted to smoke a cigarette. I threw open the window letting the cool night air filter through while my aunt recited scripture after scripture. I wanted to feel God again. I wanted to profess myself to Christ and feel His love within my heart, but I couldn’t. I went through the motions and repeated the words my aunt spoke earnestly through the phone, but my soul was detached and cut off from that sacred heavenly place. No matter how hard I tried to force it, my connection to God had been cut off indefinitely. Numb and void of emotion, I swallowed a big gulp of water. Almost immediately the brain drain returned. It’s a difficult sensation to grasp let alone attempt to describe, but it feels like sinus pressure times a thousand. It’s a dizzying rush that sends your brain swimming into an ocean of confusion and disorientation until your mind is reduced to that of a poached egg. It’s the worst sensation I’ve ever experienced in my life. It takes you over completely. There is no escape.

The last gulp of water did me in and I knew I’d messed up big time. Shouldn’t have tempted fate, I thought, now it’s time to pay the piper. My aunt read from one of her devotional books and although her voice gave me comfort, I knew my faith in God was the only hope I had. The brain drain threatened to take me to the other side where darkness ruled supreme. I was dying again, and this time, the curse of the dehydrated dog took its toll. My face became so dry and tight that my mouth and eyes felt paralyzed as if cement had just been poured over my head. My body trembled and my sight grew dim. The curse returned with a vengeance and I told my aunt to pray harder. “I want you to quit saying that,” she replied. “You’re a child of God. You’re not cursed.” Her words struck a chord in me and although the dizzying sickness was absolutely 100% real, I lifted my arms toward heaven and repeated the phrase until I believed it myself. The waves of sickness slowly subsided as my aunt continued praying over the phone. My arms shook with weakness, but I kept my eyes focused on the bathroom ceiling and concentrated on God, pleading with Him, repenting, and begging to be healed. Emergency sirens wailed through the night and grew louder as if any minute they would arrive in my driveway. My German Shepard howled from the other room and the wind rattled the window pane, but my focus remained strong. The palms of my hands soaked up God’s mercy and a little voice inside my head told me to take a drink of water, the nail in my coffin, the cursed poison. Though apprehensive, I gripped the plastic bottle and held it up to my lips, bottoms up, I thought, and drank it down.

My body twitched and jerked for a good hour after the storm passed. I sat in bed attempting to make sense out of what had just happened to me. My roommate thinks I suffered a severe panic attack, but she wasn’t around when the first wave hit. She only witnessed the aftershocks, the broken limbs and downed trees, not the swirling monsoon that pounded the shore. I’ve never suffered a panic attack in my entire life, and maybe that’s exactly what they feel like, but my gut and I know better.

I published the above post a couple of days after the life-threatening event. This is the reply I got:

Midnight (11/23/15 at 3:04pm)

Stay strong. Go outside and just walk in the woods, relax. Unplug for a while. Don’t carry the weight of The World on your shoulders; all you can do is express yourself, share what you find interesting and takes things only so far. Some things people have to come to at their own pace.

Prayers and hugs your way. I hope you feel better soon. Wait out life, consider its mysteries a great adventure. Stick it out because the story all ends the same way for us, anyhow. See how your story goes.