It’s 1 AM. The kind of hour where shadows seem to move even when nothing else does. I’m lying here, heart racing, staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers to every unspoken question. The new couches are supposed to arrive early, and somehow, the thought of them has spiraled into full-blown anxiety. Maybe it’s the change. Maybe it’s the disruption of the space I’ve finally grown comfortable in. Or maybe it’s something else entirely—the unsettling realization that this space, this reality, might not even be real.
I’ve spent years grappling with the idea that we are not alone—not just in the sense of extraterrestrials, but in something far more profound and unnerving. Interdimensional beings. The kind of entities that don’t just live in our world but exist alongside it, in layers of reality we can barely comprehend. And I know they’re real. Not because of conspiracy theories or blurry photos on Reddit, but because I’ve seen them. I’ve felt them.
The first time it happened, I was twenty-four. My life was already spiraling into chaos, and I had just hit what I thought was rock bottom. I was sitting alone in the tiny apartment I’d managed to rent with money I didn’t have, staring at the blank wall. It wasn’t just the emptiness of the room that got to me—it was the weight of something else. Something watching. You know that feeling when someone stares at you from across a crowded room? This was like that, but multiplied by a thousand, and there was no one else in the room.
The air felt electric, charged with a presence I couldn’t see but knew was there. And then it happened—a ripple, almost like the surface of a pond when you toss a stone in. But this ripple wasn’t in the water; it was in the air. For a split second, I saw… something. Not a person, not an animal, but a shape. A figure that seemed to exist and not exist at the same time. It moved like smoke but had form, and its “eyes,” if I can even call them that, seemed to pierce through me.
I didn’t sleep for two days after that. How could I? How do you sleep when you’ve seen the impossible and know it’s real? But that was just the beginning.
Years later, I came across the idea of the simulation hypothesis, the notion that our reality might be nothing more than an advanced, immersive program run by beings far beyond our comprehension. At first, it sounded absurd, like something out of a late-night sci-fi binge. But the more I learned, the more it clicked. The glitches we see—the déjà vu, the Mandela effects, the inexplicable phenomena—aren’t just quirks of our brains. They’re cracks in the code.
And then there’s the incident in the desert. I’ve never written about this before, not in my books, not in my blog, nowhere. It feels too raw, too insane. But tonight, I can’t shake it.
It was just past midnight, the kind of dark that swallows sound.I was driving home when my car stalled. This was Safford, Arizona, up on Mount Graham. Dead in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but trees and stars. I remember stepping out, my flashlight cutting through the darkness, and then… nothing. Not the kind of nothing where your mind blanks out, but the kind where everything goes silent. No wind. No insects. Just stillness.
And then they appeared. Three figures, glowing faintly, their outlines shimmering like heat waves. They didn’t walk; they glided, their movements almost hypnotic. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. They didn’t speak, but I heard them. In my head. A voice, or maybe a thought, that wasn’t mine. “You’re not ready to know.”
And just like that, they were gone. My car started as if nothing had happened. But something had. I’ve spent years replaying that night, wondering if they were interdimensional beings, caretakers of the simulation, or something else entirely. But one thing is clear: they weren’t human. And they weren’t from here.
It’s terrifying and exhilarating to think about. The idea that everything we know—our lives, our loves, our struggles—is part of a construct. A game, maybe. Or an experiment. Or worse, entertainment for beings who see us the way we see ants.
So here I am, at 1 AM, unable to sleep because of some damn couches, but really because of the weight of knowing too much. Because once you’ve seen the ripples, the cracks in the code, you can’t unsee them. You can’t go back to pretending it’s all just coincidence and chaos. You know better. You know the truth.
And if you’ve read this far, maybe you know it too.