THE LAST CHANCE
THE LAST CHANCE
Another Testimony of Jesus Christ
I'm John. I hear voices and I need to tell you what they’re saying. (How's that for an introduction.) 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.
If the idea of Christianity or proselytizing offends you, don’t worry—it offended me too. I’d talk about myself in hopes of a deeper connection, but I worry it could trigger biases. I’ll introduce myself as needed. This document is for everyone.
This document illustrates my truth of Christianity over atheism through a series of bizarre events stemming from a psychic or 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—righteous rejection of unsubstantiated dogma for the social progress of humanity.
It didn’t work.
It's a slice of my biography. Boring. I have striven to keep it brief, modern, and serious yet humorous whenever possible. Accuracy and honesty always come first. I hope this testimony will reach certain readers due to its unusual premise. It’s not a change of heart through feelings of guilt, finding the Bible, or joining a church group. It’s a divine attack on my autonomy that forced me to discard my life’s ambitions under the threat of eternal damnation.
God is real. People (like me) go to hell.
Then they will go away to eternal punishment, but the righteous to eternal life.
I've always had a curiosity for the metaphysical, but I'm only an armchair investigator. Paranormal TV always made for atmospheric and suspenseful entertainment, but I didn't want any part of religiosity or spirituality. I'm not a psychic or a ghost hunter. I don’t channel, meditate, or mess with any supposed spirit world, but I tried when I was younger. Now, I just have weird dreams.
I learned about lucid dreaming as a teenager in high school. I noted my experiences and kept a journal for a few weeks until I was off to the next thing. They were just dreams, lucid or otherwise. It was at the end of my twenties when I had the first prophetic dream.
Around the New Year of 2016, I had a vivd 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 somehow communicated: "You have the gift."
It was surreal, vivid, and unforgettable, but it meant nothing. Life didn’t change until 2024, when I began to have informational dreams almost nightly.
I experience it every day, hopefully. The phenomenon responds to thoughts, prayers, and behaviors. I experience communication throughout the nights and early mornings.
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 the occurrences into three distinct types: dreams, visions, and voices.
Lucid dreaming occurs when dreamers recognize 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, but they were just dreams, lucid or otherwise. The prophetic type I began to experience in 2024 are often a mix of conscious thought but restricted action. "Have you ever had a dream you can’t wake up from?"
The dreams also come as one second visions or snapshots, like an iPhone’s Live Photo feature. They always end with a moment of wakefulness. Sometimes, the visions are of various texts; notebook paper or scripture, iPhone and Apple Watch messages, or even the StarCraft II game lobby. Often, I’m only able to read a part of the visible text before the dream fades and I wake completely.
I don’t know if it’s common to have dreams that last one second. It's a new thing for me. Visions are always adjacent to consciousness, whether they startle me awake as I drift off or come just as sleep ends. My mind dreams momentarily while partially awake.
Disembodied voices are the most profound experience of the phenomena. In 2023, as I woke, I heard talking. Was someone just talking to me? I decided that my auditory brain started to dream before my visual mind, or something like that, 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.
And afterward, I will pour out my Spirit on all people. Your sons and daughters will prophesy, your old men will dream dreams, your young men will see visions.
The story of The Last Chance follows as a dated chronology, a journal. Daily posts are separated into a description of an event followed by commentary or explanation. Sections contain messages related to a single overarching and sometimes obfuscated goal.
I began to journal after experiencing strange dreams in the summer of 2024. Each morning, I woke up, made coffee, and typed the night’s dreams into Apple Notes. Initially, I didn't document them, but I did share the strangest with friends in another timezone. 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. Headings bulleted with emojis denote supernatural occurrences and messages. Whenever uncertainty arises, [braces] indicate the intended meaning of the forgotten specifics.
This is not a narrative of new 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).
Daily psychic and spiritual phenomena began in June of 2024, when I was hired as an assistant manager for a large gas station chain. Despite the lowly title, a good position got better after a transfer to my hometown. It was a position with scheduled overtime, and they were often 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.
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 mainstreet. I was overwhelmed by the absolute dump of a building. There were no ancient gas stations in my town, only recently-built minimarts on state highways.
The store manager gave me a shirt and said to change in a cramped bathroom behind a paper-thin door only three feet from the register—a privacy deprivation chamber. Large companies often have days of computer training before any real work can be done. Well, they don’t call it Speedway for nothing. Shelley, a multi-store manager, Mike, a preexisting 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—(slight pause)—Speedway!" I had almost an hour’s drive in, at least nine hours with no company-sanctioned breaks or lunches, and an hour ride home. Things went well for a few weeks as I became accustomed to my new day. Then, weird stuff started happening. I had a bizarre and unforgettable dream and lots of time on the road to think about it.
Here we go.
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 on it. I awoke.
The vivid dream lasted only a few seconds. It was like a movie; I had no autonomy or control. Now what? Last chance for what? What do you want from me? I chalked it up to a manifestation of anxiety, subconscious pressure to succeed at work. I didn't overthink it, but I couldn't forget it. I’d find out what was wanted of me soon, in another dream.
That escalated quickly.
I dreamed a brief vision, a one-second snapshot: a man, a woman, a small child standing together. It’s a family. I see no background, I recall no other details. It’s like a picture frame, a hazy oval. Then:
(I don’t recall how the message was sent, audibly or visually.) I felt 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.
That’s what I heard. It came in reply with auditory properties that occurred only in my head, and to this day, it’s the most detailed instance of "The Voice of God" ever experienced. Its sonority was vast, drawn out, and all-encompassing—full of presence, not loudness. It was a sound so big that it would surely take mountains of amplifiers and speakers miles away to simulate. It was as if something as big as the sky itself had spoken. The sentiment and tone was that of a shrug. Your choice.
I asked, "If you’re going to condemn me, then maybe I need to talk to Jesus?"
Yep. Many refuse to believe this is God or Jesus: "He doesn't talk that way." That’s fine. Read more.
When multiple messages or dreams would occur, I’d wake after each one and only think about what I was feeling. I’d then receive a direct response either as an auditory message, a subsequent dream, or a brief visual of text as I awoke. Basically, I tossed and turned all night as I conversed with this, well, thing.
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.
I dreamed of a small house with a fireplace and chimney. The camera angle looked downward from a forty-five-degree angle. The house appeared too simple, fake, as if its complexity was little more than that of a dollhouse or an artist’s rendition. A significant portion of the roof was cutaway, revealing a tiny single room. In the room, on the floor, my friend and I sat together before a glowing fireplace. A cloud formed 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 close, focusing on us. My 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 hysterically at his impression. Piano music played (a pattern).
The dream ends 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, to help me. I had an hour-long commute up and down a state trunkline highway, I worked in a kitchen with ovens and sharps, and I encountered hostile customers. Anything’s possible.
I used marijuana for twenty years, 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 never had 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…
The next dream came one week later, right on schedule, with a death threat.
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 consciously thought, 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 leftward into a yard (the shoulder). (It was as if my car were parked in the oncoming lane.) I heard or understood something as it happened:
Sorrow hangs over the intersection, accompanied by mournful music composed of only strings or a lone violin (a pattern). The fog is notable, as it seems brightly lit from above, like a morning fog. It’s a weather pattern that would be difficult or impossible naturally. I sat in a car, presumedly, but I recall no visuals.
Then, I saw a scene down a city alley. There was a typical city staircase on 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:
I did not hear or actually see the phrase on the cooler marquee; I only thought of 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 just sensation or sentiment, 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 immediately opposed to such petty governance. I felt angry about these threats and demands of my body. What’s next, DON’T PICK YOUR NOSE.
I quickly discovered what was next. The dreams escalated from threatening to damning. My mood had also escalated from curious and uncertain to annoyed and resentful. I had an hour to brood on my morning drive. Once I arrived at 5:00 a.m., I cooked breakfast until 6:00 for the one-hour overlap with the third-shift guy. After that, I was alone until 8:00 but often 10:00. I had a lot of time to think.
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 head-banging. If there is an album more offensive to any would-be Christian God, I don’t know it. So that’s what I played, grumbling about the insulting nature of the 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:
It was the voice of God, and it preceded the first vision of hell. It’s very clever—word on the street is, you don’t want a last chance. That’s what was meant. Yes, that is what I thought angrily to myself on the road that morning, wasn’t it.
The dream began with a landscape view of a farm field. The sky was an impossible red. There was a straight path of burnt or tilled-up destruction through the field, through a barn, and through a line of trees. It looked like a wide beam or giant wheel had swept straight through the scene and left remains on either side of its path. The barn's remaining walls and corners showed singed, splintered edges. Its face and rear wall were gone. There was sparse dried vegetation, nothing green. Imagine a cornfield after harvest, plowed over for the next year, dried husks buried amidst the dirt. A wasteland.
It came in a raspy slithering croak: the voice of evil. I then heard a crowd of voices, an unintelligible cacophony that invaded the sanctity of my mind. Drugs don’t do this. Anxiety, panic, and stress don’t do this. Extreme mental illness? Maybe. Unwanted thoughts are still your thoughts. A song in your head is not equivalent to a blasting stereo in your environment. This was.
Again: I lay awake in bed and the voices of hell continued. I considered the reality of the situation. Sleep seemed like the quickest way to escape. (Still, I wonder what would’ve happened if I had 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:
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.
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.
I went back to swiping after the date. Life continued for a couple days, 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 notion in the first place—I imagined the marquee's message. Besides, the notion wasn’t presented as clearly as the no-smoking dream. So I did what I needed when I wanted.
But then I had another weird dream.
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. I fell back half-asleep and got an answer:
I saw it in response, in type, immediately. DEAD.
"Dead? Why?"
Oh. The Voice invented a new word with an exact meaning. I was dead from bathrooming. That. Look, it’s not some slavering indulgence this age. Blow your nose—or whatever. Personal maintenance. 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.
I became accustomed to going without, after a few weeks.
I don’t remember details of the transmission, 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… and you’re 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.
It returned with new demands.
We need to do some housekeeping on the daily grind in the fast lane.
Each day’s business comes 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 female 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.
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.
Shelley 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 Shelley calm.
The call came unexpectedly: it was my last day. I agreed to transfer closer to home, which was the goal all along. I never expected to drive most of an hour to work at a gas station also located ten minutes from home. 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 dangly earrings.
I was transferred from a small but happening store to a dirty neglected broom closet. Here, I was the store leader. No Shelley, no Mike.
I went home and dreamed.
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 in regards to the cooler's best sellers.
Now, about those demands…
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:
Great. It’s Biblical, denying oneself to follow Christ. I was aware then of the ideas of those verses, and there are several, but I didn’t read the Bible at all. It seemed radical, selling everything, having nothing, wanting nothing… and then what?
At this point, 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
It’s fairly straightforward.
The morning’s message came visually, text that switched between "THE" and "YOUR," curiously. It troubled me, but I decided to press ahead 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 can that matter!
Anyone who loves their life will lose it, while anyone who hates their life in this world will keep it for eternal life.
Saturday, August 31st 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, I made a Saturday night reservation at a steakhouse up north. I noted her reception 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:
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 was curious and hopeful about what may come.
Nothing came. Nothing happened. Maybe I’ll get hit by that semi truck on the way home. I clocked out and 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—"
"I got 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?
Her.
Married, Mother of Three
I had started at the new store on Thursday, August 8th, truck day, and 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 was not 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 person, 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 was not 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.
So, I decided to completely ignore any ideas of matchmaking.
Figure: "Heart Rate". The image shows an exceptionally high heart rate Sunday night, September 8th, one week after the event of GET READY FOR SUNDAY, September 1st. iMessage, the image file’s metadata dates, and the post notes all match. Apple’s Content created field reads: Tuesday, September 10th, 20204 at 12:12 PM. Note: the event occurred Sunday; The screenshot is from two days later, visually denoted by the highlighted "T" for Tuesday.
It was a good night. I came home from work, my mom and I made pizza, and I went to bed shortly after.
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 appeared and 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 was 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.
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.
I went to work under duress. I told my church-going coworkers the entire affair whose 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 so many 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 almost quit because of her.
The rendition of perdition disturbed me for weeks. I felt that I needed a woman urgently to satisfy The Voice, whose identity switched between God and the devil regularly, I decided. God would not 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 torment. The command to date the married woman could’ve been the devil’s final blow: ruin opportunities 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 also the standard atheist position against Abrahamic religions, by the way.) The response is important, as I believe it’s an absolute case:
That’s what was happening; something was trying to save me.
A week ago, I asked out our 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, citing that I thought we’d make a good couple:
Whatever. I doubled down on swiping. I 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:
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.
Why her, why this woman that I don’t even like, I asked.
It considered itself an artist, painting perfect unions against the will of even the subjects, evidently. It made sense in an arranged marriage sort of way. The alleged God decided all fates and knew best. But I wasn’t any happier about it. Shouldn’t love be exciting.
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 often how we conversed as I tossed and turned in the night.I protested repeatedly. It responded clearly:
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.
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.
I continued to look for other avenues to the obligation of marriage. For the last few days, I half-heartedly 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 unexciting and dutiful in thought, it was overwhelmingly preferable to the situation at hand. So, I wondered hard about this, joked about it with her, fell asleep, and received my answer:
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.
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.
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.
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:
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.
The parkas are important. She and I always wore them at work. Hers were pink, red, or teal, and she often 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?
Kayla.
As I drifted out of sleep, I heard a list sternly recited. Then, I was able to perceive the last two listed items, one of which mentioned Nikki, but never the first. There was significant upward emphasis on the drawn-out R-I-I-I-GHT, a tone of mockery. It was a depressing and negative start to the day, on trial again.
The oppression was so great I often didn't even care to inform my west coast and heartland confidants of the dreams. It was the same story for weeks anyhow.
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 microtasks: 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 it was my routine. 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 did have an interest. Her weekends were booked with 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 politely expressed, "another time."
It pleased me immensely, of course.
My trial was over. Right.
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).
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.
Flash-forward.
The vision of the dungeon and coffin was always reminiscent of a CD cover. Almost two months later, I decided to see if I could find it. I remembered only that it was an artist I knew but didn’t like. The style was from the 1990s. 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. The following verses of the Bible corroborate the terminology:
As for you, you were dead in your transgressions and sins, in which you used to live when you followed the ways of this world and of the ruler of the kingdom of the air, the spirit who is now at work in those who are disobedient.
When you were dead in your sins and in the uncircumcision of your flesh, God made you alive with Christ.
Very truly I tell you, whoever hears my word and believes Him who sent me has eternal life and will not be judged but has crossed over from death to life".
I didn’t learn of the terminology from scripture, however. About the time of the dream, I saw a customer wearing 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.
Back to the present. This one was interesting. The message foretold the event. That morning, I heard:
Was it a message of hope, finally? A new hot date from out of town? No Nikki!?
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.
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.
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 was a baptism for flirting with the new customer. I'd cheated on my bride-to-be.
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.
It’s a parable of heaven and hell.
I dreamed I stood in an elegant dining room. It had a rich wood floor, 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:
Yes, like that: one word.
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.
Biblical Reference:
"But when the king came in to see the guests, he noticed a man there who was not wearing wedding clothes. He asked, ‘How did you get in here without wedding clothes, friend?’ The man was speechless. "Then the king told the attendants, ‘Tie him hand and foot, and throw him outside, into the darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.’ "For many are invited, but few are chosen."
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 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 at this point, yet I was seeing the doompit. Still, it seemed like a message of hope amidst the barrage of baptisms.
Nope. A message of doom followed immediately amidst the tosses and turns:
The basement? Like, hell? What was it this time?
Eternal damnation?
Remember him—before the silver cord is severed, and the golden bowl is broken; before the pitcher is shattered at the spring, and the wheel broken at the well…
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 our 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.
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?
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, looked 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.
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?
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.
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.
The 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!"
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.
Speedway and healthy living took up all my time, so I didn’t have time for games. Plus, I preferred to spend weekends on development / programming. Yet, it would be a big year for games, personally. A nine-month preorder dropped on October 4th, 2024. I waited two years after the announcement, and it’s the most anticipated game of my life.
Games were always a part of my life. I didn’t play in my twenties; I partied with friends. I gamed on and off through my early thirties, sure, but it wasn’t my raison d'être. COVID was great for gaming, however. 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, just as I plugged in my phone for bed, I thought, "I don’t give a [care], I’m playing games tomorrow." Damned anyway.
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"
It was upsetting, such 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 then to my game room for the Windows tower, piling 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.
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.
Is this a trick? 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:
That's only two months away!
Let’s pause, step back, and consider what happened over the last three months. Remember the/your/my Doomsday incident, when I picked up 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 my cherished computers that were piled high 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 packrat, 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 was at the local Dollar General to meet Facebook Marketplace buyers every night for weeks. Emphasis: my hobbies were cheap, compact, something I didn’t even have time for, yet they still had to go.
We skipped three months. There were mini-sagas about screen time and a coveted CD. The final saga of this testimony came in mid-January from a single bizarre dream and a subsequent voice message later that day. A month later, at the end of February, things began to move quickly.
Something else happened as I sold everything throughout mid-February: I met a woman on Facebook. She loved my antique table, one I’d been unable to sell for years. Finally, a buyer! She was two towns over, busy, and disabled, she said, despite her employment as a home care worker. I became frustrated by her reassurance of interest without effort, so with no other prospects, I 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.
I dreamed about abstaining from all computer activities from mid-November to mid-February. Among those, this vivid and unrelated depiction occurred one morning before work:
I dreamed. I sat on a couch in a cramped bar, a gentleman’s lounge. Ahead, there’s 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 nat 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 has 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 realized later that 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.
I didn’t feel convicted or threatened by the dream; I felt it was a warning to take the 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:
What’s that supposed to mean?
February 13 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.
I considered the idea of a heart attack at work. Later, I realized a shooting was more obvious. It seemed to build on that.
I now considered that I wouldn’t be working alone when the robbery occurred. I only ever had help a couple days each week, which narrowed it down.
I saw a handgun 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.
I saw a traditional 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 partial pentagram, but a loose note specifies a goat in the middle, even. Orange embers glowed in charred lines.
Letters and numerals 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 March 2–3 deadline, I had the perfect recipe for paranoia. Yet, it reminded me of previous death threats / semi trucks.
Shelley 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 next opportunity would be after her week of leave. She’d be back to work next Sunday and Monday: March 2–3.
Before the day ended, I called the manager 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.
(Well, yeah, there was a gun threat 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.
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 Shelley. We were interrupted by challenging customers.
A mother–daughter pair from Texas wanted lotto by special request. Shelley 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 malcontentment. The store was empty, quiet. From the other room, I heard Shelley 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 Shelley 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.
Tonight, it all came together.
I dreamed of work, with the abused coworker, a lovely Hispanic woman from Texas. Although our store doesn't have a kitchen, in the dream, we worked near 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, musically:
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. (John, you can't just throw emojis everywhere! It's another communication pattern God uses. We'll get to it later.)
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.
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.
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.
Shelley 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.
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. While it’s not abnormal, it is a bit odd given the situation of complete strangers. She was someone who also had a strong religious conviction built upon a few spiritual and unexplainable experiences. She seemed to accept this 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.
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.
I sat on a rug, perhaps 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 this one at a thrift store. I’ve owned it for over thirty years. I heard or understood in the dream:
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.
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.
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 is a big one—a two-parter.
The ESP book from yesterday morning certified and symbolized tonight’s message as prophecy:
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.)
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.
As if the night couldn't get any crazier.
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, tomorrow, the first of March—the day of the pentagram—the day Shelley 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 in 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. Then, as I reached the stairwell on one of my laps from end-to-end of 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.
I jittered on pins and needles until two-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 to see 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. I’m just going home. We’re making pizza for dinner."
I left for my date Saturday with the woman from Facebook. We dined at a nice restaurant, shopped at Salvation Army, and spent the evening together.
It’s a happy ending, for now.
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 was ridiculous.
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 one night in my early twenties, and God wanted me to know it was a miracle. More than that, He tied it in prophetically.
Like I said, the big stuff comes on Sundays.
I counted back the years. Well, yeah, something did happen about that time…
Flash way back.
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. Next, 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.
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 3rd, I was asked to give a short speech on a testimony at my church’s monthly speech club on July 1st. Now, 16.5 years ago would be Jan 1, but 16 years and 5 months ago, however, is exactly February 1 of 2009. Is that a stretch, for you? The next time I heard "15" it was presented as "8 4 3" perhaps due to possible errors in transmission.
For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways; they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.
Let's talk frankly.
No one has a greater stake in disbelief than me. I quit a good job close to home with opportunities for advancement. I sold irreplaceable equipment and gave up gaming and programming.
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 the Bible completely throughout 2025, yet nearly all verses were added in revision. I didn't engineer this document to reflect verses or parables.
It’s a living document; I append, trim, and update with the intent to make a compelling and distributable reading, one that readers finish, one that inspires. The nature of dreams and recollection provides additional revelation.
There’s no way to include all recorded phenomena. Instead, I’ve presented a series of related messages that comprise "sagas" in the timeline with a definite purpose. I've grouped some original posts together instead of having three dates for three related messages, for example.
I hold atheists in a high regard today. Its true adherents are typically 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, as I hope theirs is a matter of can’t and not won’t (even though mine was much more the latter). If I did not 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.
If the people espousing the highest moral standard for love and peace aren't Christians, how does it make Christianity look? Unappealing. Add the Problem of Hell, politics, and the notion that religiosity certifies no virtue other than itself, and you get a recipe for atheism or even anti-religion.
A leap of faith is unnecessary; a step will do. God responds to acts of belief as small as a mustard seed (Matthew 17:20).
The first step is to trust Jesus Christ as our Savior today.
If you declare with your mouth, "Jesus is Lord," and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. For it is with your heart that you believe and are justified, and it is with your mouth that you profess your faith and are saved.
For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast.
The problem is that people think life gets harder with God.
July 17, 2025
I think the testimony is finished?
🗣️ "TAKE IT TO THE WIND"
Notes
Notes
Today, October 1, 2025, I checked the text on the burnt hellscape scene for powerlines. There's no mention of them, yet I've always imagined the scene with powerlines and even metal towers at a distance. If all the trees were cut out of the back yard, the view would show powerlines crossing the ruined barn, my barn, against a wall of distant trees on a neighboring property.